I keep having images of Herman Cain barefoot, covered in sweat and mud, wearing an old patchwork shirt and handmade burlap pants held up by a rope rather than a belt, out of breath and frantically running for his life; to freedom. Menacing sounds of barking dogs in the distance focused on Cain’s scent. Not far behind, hot on Cain’s trail, are black overseers determined to keep their fellow black slaves in check for their white liberal Democrat massas.