TinyTim wasn’t tiny. He was the size of a fridge that lifts other fridges for fun. But in his heart? He was a starry eyed fanboy. The star? Nike .

Nike wasn’t even that impressive. Granted, he wore sunglasses at night and once pistol whipped a guy with a toothbrush but that was more confusing than cool. Still, to TinyTim ... he was a god with fantastic legs. 

Tim had a scrapbook. A literal scrapbook. Newspaper clippings, blurry photos, one used cigarette butt “allegedly smoked by Nike.” It was taped next to a heart shaped poem that read:

Oh Nike, my gangster, my hero, my flame,
Your enemies tremble just hearing your name.
You strut down the street in a tartan so bold,
A kilt full of swagger and pockets of gold.

You puff on your cigarette, cool as the breeze,
While robbing old ladies with frightening ease.
"Your boiler is fucked, dear Ethyl" you cockily declare,
As you tip her a wink and then vanish in air.

So here's to you, Nike, my idol, my guide,
With your socks to your knees and your pistol beside.
One day I shall join you. Your shadow, your twin!
Just... maybe not the kilt. I've got weird legs. Thin.

One day, they were out on a job, establishing their prominence in this world. Nike casually tossed a match onto a car hood to make a point.

TinyTim, overcome, clapped.

“Bravo, boss. So elegant. Like a ballet of violence”.

“Timothy” . Nike said “stop following three inches behind me”.

“I’m guarding your aura”.

“Stop writing down everything I say”.

“It’s for the Nike Bible” Tim whispered to himself.

Eventually, Nike had to address it.

“Timothy, you gotta chill man. You tattooed my name on your forehead backwards so it shows up right in the mirror”.

TinyTim beamed. “I wanted to see your name when I brush my teeth. For motivation”.

Nike sighed, defeated by the love TinyTim threw at him endlessly. “You scare me more than the cops do”.

But secretly?

He kinda liked it.

Now his secret was out - his idol Nike knew of his unwavering admiration for him, he could truly express himself fully. 

He wrote poem after poem, created shrines and dreamt of the day Nike saw him the same way. 

Maybe, just maybe, he could serenade him with one of his poems and win his admiration in return. 

Tim concluded, it was worth a shot. 

"Oh Nike, my gangster, my forceful delight,
You strut through the Bronx like Braveheart at night.
A cigarette dangles, so cool, from your lip
You lit it with fire... from last Tuesday's trip.

You robbed Mrs. Jenkins while golfing a hole,
Stole her purse mid-putt and still nailed the roll
"Fore!" you yelled sexy, while swinging your club,
Slipping out her purse with a sensual rub.

Your kilt flaps frantically, windy or not,
You wear nothing beneath, I know. Please don’t squat.
Your style is so savage, your crime is so neat,
You mug with such grace with ballet dancers feet.

I follow you proudly, your number one guy,
Just me, your loyal fanboy, who once made you cry

I showed you my tattoo, your name on my head,
While you were flexing with bagpipes and robbing the dead.
I may be unhinged, but I swear this is true,
If loving you’s crazy, then lock me up too".