This is the tale of the rise and fall of one of the most famous horses ever, Iron-Shoed Mike. As a bastard child, Iron-Shoed was fed nails and whipped mercilessly until a rage brewed inside of him. He burst on the scene wearing all black and blowing away the field by 25 furlongs at the Kentucky Derby. As he stood in the limelight of the winners circle, the crowd immediately fell in love with this beast. The rose necklace that he wore contrasted sharply with the fire in his eyes and the gold teeth in his mouth. He was the bad boy with speed that knocked out any horse in his path and an inevitable Triple Crown winner.
He was even more dominant at the Preakness, intimidating his foes into taking dives. It was the first time ever that only one horse actually crossed the finish line. At the podium in a strangely high pitched nay, he proclaimed, "I'm gonna eat your fawn." This only made the crowd love him more. He was America's equestrian sweetheart.
Then came the Belmont, the last piece of the puzzle that would cement his legacy as the greatest horse to ever wear jockeys. He had spent the time in between races touring the late night circuit and sitting by the pool, chasing the muff around. Some skeptics wondered if Iron-Shoed was really focused on the race, but didn't say anything for fear that he would gnaw out their soul.
As the horses came out of the gates, it was apparent that something wasn't right. Iron-Shoed Mike was stuck in the middle of the pack and got frustrated. Halfway around the track, the favorite finally broke through the pack, but not before he had busted a blood vessel in his eye. His blurred vision clearly bothered him because he couldn't seem to keep a straight line. As they entered the final turn, he held a narrow lead over a horse with a million to one odds. The novelty cigars he had been puffing during his down time got the best of Iron-Shoed and within the blink of an eye, the hearts of millions were shattered as a horse named Buster Rabbit crossed the finish line and won the Belmont.
The lightning speed that had once forced the racing world into submission was replaced by a fat, hollow, worthless piece of shit.Batteries, bottles, and boos pummeled Iron-Shoed; he was rushed off the track and forced into seclusion. His owner pulled him out of all remaining races that year. But things were only about to get worse. Numerous allegations arose fillies who had been violently taken advantage of by Iron-Shoed. Apparently, "no" really does mean "no" once you are a loser. The once beloved, black beauty was sent to lock-up in a medium security barn.
Convincing the world that he had found religion and that he put his faith in God, Iron-Shoed was released and told the world that the best was yet to come. Sadly, he could not deliver on his promise. The only thing that seemed to stay the same was that high-pitched voice that had charmed the world. The lightning speed that had once forced the racing world into submission was replaced by a fat, hollow, worthless piece of shit. In the Breeders' Cup, the richest race of the year, he bit the ear off of another horse in what seemed to be a momentary dive into insanity. He was temporarily banned from racing and required to seek anger management.
In desperate need of money, Iron-Shoed started a campaign to allow him to race somewhere, anywhere. On his name alone he got his wish: he was reinstated on a temporary basis in Kentucky for the purpose of participating in an undercard race. He spent weeks training and even began to get some of his speed back. There was hope that this might be a legitimate comeback. However, inexplicably, he got a tribal tattoo on his face the night before and got scratched from the race because the blinders hurt too much to wear.
For every other horse, this would have been the last straw; there was speculation that he would be put down for insubordination. Amazingly, New York allowed him to participate with the stipulation that if any funny stuff happened, he would be forever banned from returning to the state. Of course, Iron-Shoed fucked up again. He showed up drunk off his ass and proceeded to run the race in the wrong direction. Somehow he managed to kick his jockey in the nuts while he was still riding him. And then it happened. Mike shot one of his iron shoes into the crowd, killing a 60-year-old WASP. But more importantly, he bloodied up a perfectly good seer-sucker suit. The fallen star had crashed. It was officially over.
Somehow, despite all of his indiscretions and violent behavior, nobody ever cut off his balls. His owner, clinging to memories, decided to retire him to stud, to the elation of Mike. Finally, he thought, he could get his rocks off without the nagging consensual issues. However, he soon learned that his dreams were simply fantasy. He didn't mount anything besides a cloth with a hole in it. He was humiliatingly jerked off by a strange man. People stared unimpressed by the freak show in front of them. Sadly, the years of questionable decision-making had rendered him sterile and he was put out to pasture.
Iron-Shoed spent all of his time reliving his glory days, playing the greatest video game ever created because it was about him. However, his inability to overcome the charging Bald Bull made him snap. He began huffing glue in hope that he would somehow inhale part of the father that never loved him. Elmer gummies were the only thing that would numb the pain of a broken life. Three months later, Iron-Shoed Mike died when his stomach literally exploded. His habit had created a bowel obstruction the size of Robin Givens and he essentially died from horse shit build-up, kind of a fitting end to a steed that once carried the world on his saddle. Iron-Shoed Mike will be remembered for a lot of things, but perhaps mostly for the lesson that even the fastest of hooves can't outrun horse hubris.
