... And just what on earth were these doing here? What kind of person would leave a pair of boots, seemingly as nice as these were, sitting out in the grass all by their lonesome? Why? For what reason? Inspecting them closer, their use was admittedly evident. They'd seemingly kept well over what appeared to be a substantial service life, but obviously, they were no longer new. The stitching on them, the western-styled boots emblazoned in intricate white patterns, was still immaculate. The only evidence they'd been used at all was patches of patina which dappled the rich-looking, brown leather and the creases that lined points of stress, such as the portion where the toe-box bent as the wearer would walk, and slight lines around the darker-brown shaft, and a faded fabric tag towards the back which read "WorkHog" in a bright red font. For a truly bizarre reason that could not be adequately described, they called to you. As if faintly, in the very recesses of your mind, you could hear the steel strings of obnoxious country music as you approached them. A force seemed to magnetize you to them, and was rather insistent on keeping you close. Only one more question needed to be asked: Should you put them on?