Sometimes truth outshines fiction’s light,
And twists our fate in ways so bright.
This tale begins in thirty-four,
Where fate would open a fateful door.
Captain Falby, proud and keen,
A cop in El Paso, brave and clean.
Upon his bike he chased that day,
A truck that sped and sped away.
Sirens wailed, his throttle tight,
Through dusty streets he chased in fright.
But then the truck, with sudden brake,
Swerved hard — a deadly, fatal stake.
Falby slammed — his bike took flight,
Both man and steel went sliding white.
Sparks and pain, his body torn,
His legs were crushed, his uniform worn.
Pinned beneath his iron steed,
He screamed aloud, began to bleed.
The truck sped off — no help, no care,
Just silence, pain, and open air.
But from afar, two strangers ran,
To help this brave, unconscious man.
They saw the blood, the crimson sea,
And knew he’d die without decree.
One said, “Hold still, we’ll make it right.”
He took the captain’s necktie tight.
The other fetched a sturdy stick,
They worked together, calm and quick.
They tied the tie above the wound,
And twisted tight — the pressure wound.
A makeshift tourniquet was made,
And slowly, Falby’s life was saved.
The doctor said, with grave surprise,
“Ten minutes more — you’d close your eyes.”
But fate had smiled, for help had come,
From two kind souls who weren’t numb.
Four years later, on patrol once more,
Falby raced down Route Eighty’s floor.
A crash ahead — a car, a tree,
A man inside — in misery.
He dragged him out, his leg was torn,
Bleeding fast, his skin was worn.
Falby knew — he’d seen before,
This wound, this pain, this bloody war.
No tourniquet he had in hand,
So with his tie, he made a band.
A stick, a twist — the flow was gone,
He saved the man — life carried on.
When medics came, they checked the scene,
And Falby saw, as if a dream —
The man he saved, pale, near death,
Was one who’d saved him with his breath.
Alfred Smith — the stranger kind,
Four years ago, he’d intertwined.
Their fates had crossed, like mirrored thread,
Each saved the other from the dead.
Later they laughed, in Ripley’s news,
Two lives exchanged, one fate to choose.
And Falby said, with grateful tether,
“One good tourniquet deserves another.”