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thewestern · 1 year ago

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Chapter 11

Currently outnumbered five-to-one by salaried employees, The Cowboy just so happened to be the sole paying customer in the place. Although only the two bartenders were technically on the clock. The Mick would have otherwise cut one or both of them, on a slow night such as this, but alas, they were one another’s ride. Louisa and Thadeus Jackson (a.k.a. Thad and Lulu, Leej and Teej, etc.) were twin sister and brother, respectively. They interviewed with Hank in tandem, who was plain tickled by the notion of having a set of twins tending his bar, even if they weren’t identical, which he would have preferred. Hypothesizing that their prenatal telepathy — twintuition, if you will — would elevate their efficiency on even the busiest of shifts, Hank considered their hiring his contribution to service industry science. For this, the Mick told him he was a sick individual, conducting human experiments on his staff like that. You sound like that Nazi doctor, he said. What's-his-name. Meringue.

Christ in Heaven, Kid … there’s some things you just don’t kid about, Hank would reprimand the Mick, whenever he made light of the genocide carried out against his peoples, the Ashkenazi Jews, which was often.

Tell you what, Hank … if I start spouting off at the mouth about the potato famine or some other Irish bullshit, then by all means, you tell me what’s what.

Sometimes he felt compelled to remind Hank he was The Mick — not A Mick — and flex his Semitic bona fides, even if he hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue since Zach Greenberg’s Bat Mitzvah. (The after party for which was Sports-themed.)

As to the twins working well together, Hank was partway right on that score. Perhaps because they shared a shoebox apartment as adults, or a childhood bedroom for years before that likely on account of they once cohabitated a uterus … they did seem to have a heightened awareness of each other, spatially speaking, having spent more than their entire lifetime in close proximity. (The official position of this book is that life does not begin at conception.) And for this being such a small workspace, this was no small thing. Be wherever someone else isn’t — there… most ’s another good rule of thumb for working behind the bar. Thadeus and Louisa followed it instinctively. If she was pouring beers, he was taking orders. If he was closing somebody out, she was washing glasses. That sort of thing.

So then Hank’s Theory of Twin Bartending was borne out in the sense that they worked with an economy of movement. To say they were model co-workers though, well that would be a fucking separate matter entirely. Hurry up and wait is another maxim that may apply to tending bar. Like most any other job — a proper job anyway (this doesn’t apply to all of you desk jockeys out there … ain’t nobody knows what you’re up to all day) — there are times when it is busy, and times between when it’s busy. During the busy times, you’re running around like hellfire. During the other times, well, there’s a lot of hanging around, waiting for it to get busy again. At an older bar like the New Frontier — a Mature Brand, as one might venture to call it — the times between the busy times get a little bit longer. As an employee, that time is yours to use at your own discretion. Take five. Have a smoke and a Coke as Hank used to say. Now the twins, they used that between time to busy themselves with that which they were simultaneously born to do — push each other’s ever last fucking buttons.

Because boy they could butt heads with the best of them, couple of butt heads that they were. Like a pair of bighorns, except they weren’t at odds for any good reason of natural selection, other than that they were naturally selected — against their wills mind you — to be dizygotic twins. Maybe you reckon that’s reason enough, depending how you get on with your sibling. And if you’re a brother to a sister, especially an older sister, which Louisa was to Thadeus by every part of five minutes, then you know their horns hit just as hard. She was no exception. Rather she was the Rule. In that regard and every other.

For a fact, of them two, Lulu was the far dirtier fighter — quite often the decisive factor in a knock-down/drag-out type-brawl the likes of which they were predisposed to having. But being how Thad was the little brother, by those five minutes that may have well been five years, he had an intuition about locating her very last nerve and clawing at it like a banjo string. That was the tale of the tape for all their bouts. He started it, but by gosh, you better believe she fucking finished it.

Observe, as he was presently haranguing her about her technique or lack thereof with a mop:

Hey, Dummy. How many times do I have to tell you? Figure—fucking—eight. Going back and forth like that ain’t cleaning fuck all. See all that puddling? That’s you taking the stickiness and rearranging it someplace else. Cuidado, piso mojado. White girl can’t mop for shit.

Fuck You, Thadeus. For real. Imagine, for one time in your miserable life, just minding your own goddamn business. Better yet, how’s about you focus your fleeting fucking attention on the receipts, because I’d bet twice my take that you’re over there miscounting our tips again. And here you got the balls to tell me how to do my job … Can’t even do remedial math. Fucking retard.

No, I’m counting them right. Know how come I know? Because it don’t add up to dick. Hey, here’s a bright idea … Maybe when you stop being such a [he whispered this next word, but intentionally in a way that everyone could hear] C-U-N-T to every hard-on that walks in here, we might could afford to go to the good grocery store, finally.

Oh yeah? I got a better idea: blow me.

Beside, you of all people know damn well that those Feist Week douchebags are a bunch of deadbeats, to a fucking man. You could personally jerk off every last one of them to completion, and it wouldn’t make a taint hair’s bit of difference. There were at least two hundred of those pussies in and out of here today … Probably couldn’t rub a nickel or a stiff cock between them.

Never change, Louisa. Always with the mother fucking excuses. And you’re still doing it wrong. Figure-fucking-eight. It’s a naturally recurring phenomenon for a reason. Symbol of cosmic balance and stability. Only number in the Fibonacci Sequence that is a perfect cube. Turn it sideways and signifies the divine infinite. As in you’re taking fucking forever to finish mopping this floor. Blackbeard will find the Eighth Sea before you’re through. Physically applicable to ice skating, rollercoasters and eating pussy. What’s the matter … didn’t they teach you how to hold a mop for your job as a night janitor at the clit-licking factory? Ask nice and I’ll come over there and show you myself.

First of all, gross. You wouldn’t know a pussy if it bit you on the nose. Goddamn vagina dentata. Tossing dudes’ salads, reciting the alphabet, is what you’re doing. Secondly, I swear on mom and dad … You take one step closer and I’ll flip you up by your ankles and mop this floor with your thick fucking skull. Third of all, one is a perfect cube, you dunce.

The Jackson twins were Mormon. That was the other thing Hank liked about them. As a devout atheist, he fancied the idea of his bar as a godless asylum for religious refugees, cast out from all creeds. While it’s true that LJ & TJ had somewhat lapsed in their practice as Latter-day Saints, it wasn’t like they were excommunicated — osome fundamentalist freak show. They weren’t products of polygamy. In actuality, it was nothing like that. Their childhood was as normal and loving as the next. Dad was a dentist. Mom was his dental hygienist. They met in college, where she was the varsity soccer captain. (She went on to coach the kids’ teams.) They were all four still very close. Lived in the alphabet, is what you’re doing. Secondly, I swear on mom and dad … You take one step closer and I’ll flip you up by your ankles and mop this floor with your thick fucking skull. Third of all, one is a perfect cube, you dunce.

Normally the Mick didn’t have any qualms about telling the twins to knock it the fuck off when they got to cussing and carrying on like a pair of knuckleheads in front of the customers, even if tonight there was only the one. But, it was the end of Feist Week and he hadn’t neither the care nor the inclination. Sometimes you had to let them tire themselves out. Anyway, they considered this type of fun and easy banter — a shitty repartee — to be part of the weekly routine. Sunday was their Friday, you see. Meaning they had Monday and Tuesday off. By Wednesday they’d be back to the best of friends. Peacetime would usually last through Thursday evening, maybe midday the following. Saturday at the latest they were right back at t’other’s throats.

While the twins blew off steam in their colourful way, the Mick was unwinding in his own, with a number-two pencil in his hand, and his face six inches from his brewing log, the latest edition in an infinite volume of marble composition notebooks. There aren’t a lot of hard-and-fast job requirements or best practices for being a brewer, but one would be well served to keep a thorough journal. For jogging down all manner of things — prospective recipes, notes about how this or that batch is progressing, ideas for naming a beer, whatever or what have you. The Mick wasn’t doing anything productive as that, to be sure. Rather you could say he was doodling, but that would be selling him short. Like so many creative types, his talents were almost entirely agnostic of medium. (I’m an artist, said John Lennon. Give me a tuba, and I’ll get you something out of it.) He directed a student film about misadventures in shaving that won an award from the University fine arts department. Played tuba in the West High jazz ensemble, before that. Had garnered nearly universal acclaim from his grammar school teachers for the avant-garde usage of macaroni and other mixed-use media. And for tonight, he was displaying his gifts as an illustrator.

But this present sketch … It may have just been his masterpiece.

Hank was gathering his thunder bow, riding bareback at a breakneck pace atop Bertha the bison. Her head had been reattached in Mick’s reimaging. He had also considered taking the artistic license to give her wings — like a pegasus … a winged buffalo — but he made the executive decision to keep her grounded. Bearing down behind them, a neon-basked Doctor Lupus was riding a rocket, in the style of Wile E. Coyote, except crucially this was an authentic Cavness Baumann cruise missile, not your generic Acme-brand firecracker. Hank and Bertha were about to topple off the edge of a cliff.

Barkeep … Beg your pardon. Could I trouble you for the WIFI password? Assuming that is you got it handy.

The Cowboy kindly asked Thadeus, who answered in a tone less so.

Two drink minimum. Two the number. No caps or spaces.

The Mick glanced over to the Cowboy, accidentally making eye contact. Instinctively he snapped his neck back down to his notebook, but it was too late.

Say, friend. What’re you doodling there? Of course if you don’t mind mine asking.

Of course the Mick’d clocked that sitting there at the bar beside him was a fully kitted out cowpoke, but he was too damn tired to give it a moment’s thought. Kitty had seen him too, but all she could muster was, well, I must be dreaming. Which would be a welcome diversion. Most nights she didn’t sleep well enough to dream.

Now this dude didn’t look like a cattleman, come to town for to auction off his stock. Rather he looked to be rode hard right off a drive. His hat had the brim turned down all the way round, more like a sombrero than the ones with the brim turned up and all the steamed creases — like the ones worn by a cheesedick country star, or the Mayor’s close personal friend, the U.S. Senator-turned-Interior Secretary. He wore a barn coat like Hildy’s, but one that had spent considerable time in a barn, you could tell. Red bandana hanging alertly around his weather-beaten neck, also red, tanned the color of infertile, rocky dirt. No boots of exotic leather. Just a beat-up pair of square-toed shit-kickers. A real tough customer, he appeared to the Mick to be.

It’s just a sketch. I wouldn’t know how to explain it exactly.

I see. So then you say it’s open to interpretation. Hain’t that the best type of art anyways? If it’d oblige you, of course, I’d be delighted to take a gander.

Knock yourself out, Buddy.

The Mick slid the open notebook over to the Cowboy, who studied at it a moment out of the side of his left eye whilst he completed his beer.

The Mick took an interest in what folks were drinking, and although the uninitiated couldn’t discern the difference in their amber hues, he could tell that the Cowboy had passed over Rider, Pale, in favor of a pint of Bar Fight IPA. This was the Newfy’s second most popular beer, and the first they ever canned. That was back when craft beer types turned their noses up at the mere suggestion of canning their divine creations. Just as soon they’d serve it from a trough. Glass was the only worthy canvas on which to express their liquid art, was the conventional wisdom.

It’s true, the way they were snobby about beer, they were just as snobby about the receptacle from whence it cascaded into your face hole. Apart from the fresh tap, only bottles would do, and preferably brown. Again, that’s if you insist on taking it to go. Surely you’d prefer to drink it On Premise, where its freshness can be guaranteed. Also so that it may be served in the appropriate glass. Now what does that even? Look at it this way. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Well then therefore the glass is the window to your beer. And every beer has its soulmate in drinkware. Tulip, snifter, teku, stange, thistle. No, these are not the names of the seven dwarves or eight reindeers. They are individualized vessels, Born of Flame, calibrated over centuries to the precise contouring for receiving the perfect pour of your chosen beverage.

Because, nay, there is no such thing as a universal glass. However, if you so happen to be at home, about to enjoy a cold(-but-no-too-cold), refreshing Weissbier (ideal serving temp of forty-four degrees Fahrenheit, or thereabouts), let’s say, but for some reason the bottom tray on your antique bar cart isn’t fully stocked with hefeweizen glasses … Then in this and other unfortunate and avoidable situations, the Classic Pint can in a pinch suffice. And although it would be a futile and potentially offensive exercise to choose the Best Beer Glass … Boy, she is a beaut, isn’t she?

We’re still talking about a standard English pub glass. The Nonic Pint, to be clear. Ne’er to be confused with the bastard Shaker Pint. If you don’t know what a shaker pint is, good. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Just don’t ever ask a craft brewer about them unless you’re looking for a fucking earful. This is the Imperial Pint. The Prime Meridian. Elegant, durable, easily stacked. To slug an ale or a porter or a stout from anything else would be sacrosanct. Even the Holy Grail, assuming you could locate the goddamn thing. (It’s in the dishwasher!) Jesus Saves, but Gretzky puts home the rebound. Ah, then, what about the Stanley Cup? Not for all the syrup in Saskatoon, you hoser.

I can see by your outfit that you are a cowboy, the Mick said to his new drinking companion.

For all his great many other faults, a pretentious man, Hank was not. Case in point, he had a deep appreciation for the two-piece aluminum can, which he considered to be a modern engineering marvel. And would you believe: it was the legacy of Hildy’s father, who pioneered the use of Al (Aluminium) for beverage containment purposes and designed the can as we know it before his life was cut so cruelly short? If it weren’t for Wilhelm II (Il Duece), conceivably we’d still be drinking out of steel cans, which (one) imparted a metallic aftertaste and (two) were non-recyclable. For a fact, in the same time period before people knew about jogging, the concepts of recycling and by extension littering were also entirely foreign. In those days, when one finished a beer, he or she simply chucked the empty out the car window. (Drunk driving wasn’t yet taboo either. That was one of Hank’s favorite things to reminisce about — getting a little buzz on and going for a ride … Turn the radio up. Roll the windows down. Baby, you can’t beat it. Oh, what’s the worst that could happen? Maybe a cop would ask you politely to pull over and sleep it off. Or even he’d lead you home himself. Fucking pig. Have I committed a crime? Hardly. Hell, it wasn’t even a term … Drunk Driving. It was just Driving, back then. You wouldn’t think to distinguish it as drunk or otherwise.) Driving along Shakedown Street on the way out of a show, Hank’s heart would break at the sight of all the empties strewn about in every which direction, being the tree-hugging type that he was. What can you do? Some people have a deep abiding respect for the natural beauty that was this country. And some people don’t.

(A lot of people don’t know the origin of the phrase: Don’t Mess With Texas. And honestly, why should they? It’s something only assholes say. Certainly, but did you know that it’s not actually the official motto of the State of Texas? That — quite conversely — is Friendship, likely chosen on account of the name Texas being the gringo-fied interpretation of the Spanish word Tejas, which itself was a cultural mispronunciation of the local Indian tribe's word teyshas or thecas, meaning friends or allies. [Amity, as you know, means friendship.] Don’t Mess With Texas, rather, began as the catchphrase for an anti-littering campaign, devised by the Austin-based advertising agency BDS&M — which specializes in its proprietary practice of Purpose-based Branding — as paid for by the Texas Department of Transportation [TxDot]. In addition to being reproduced on road signs, bumper stickers, t-shirts, untold unlicensed tattoos and the iconic garbage barrels painted in red, white and blue hoops [the Texas tricolore], the tagline anchored a widely seen series of television commercials which aired starting in the middle-eighties, showcasing Texas-born stars of screen [Owen Wilson, Chuck Norris, etc.], stage [Willie Nelson, George Strait, Chamillionaire, etc.] and sport [Andy Pettitte, Lance Armstrong, etc.]. According to official estimates, over a thirteen-year period, DMWT was credited with reducing litter by just shy of seventy-five percent on Lone Star state highways. And if that weren’t reward enough, the maxim was awarded a commemorative plaque on the Madison Avenue Walk of Fame.

When you think of ad slogans, probably quite a few corporate-branded clauses come to mind. [When’s the Beef, Get Milk, Toe-Sucking Good, Can You Smell Me Now, What Can Brown Do To You, It Just Do, I’m In Love With It, Cereal For Winners, etc.] All of those words were written on behalf of a company to try and sell a product or a service to you, either as an individual consumer or the representative of another company. [Industry professionals distinguish the latter from the former by the acronyms B2B and B2C.] However, maybe you don’t think so much about how many iconic advertising slogans were created by state-sponsored and/or otherwise non-profit entities, not necessarily to encourage a single purchase decision, but instead for the express purpose of influencing ongoing patterns of behavior, in broader service of the Greater Good. There are violence prevention slogans [Take a Bite out of Crime, See Something Say Something], tourism board sirens’ calls [I <3 NY, Virginia is for Lovers, What Happens in Vegas …], monosyllabic mantras against addiction [truth or D.A.R.E.] and perhaps most beloved, nature’s call-to-action, placing the burden of responsibility for warding off natural disaster firmly upon you, ye watcher of Saturday morning cartoons.

Like Don’t Mess With Texas, these slogans are part and parcel of Public Service Announcements. PSAs began in the pre-war period in the United Kingdom and the United States, as a way to encourage support on the homefront for the conflict to come. Sometimes they promoted the taking of specific measures, such as investing in war bonds, growing your own foods [cultivate your victory garden] or straight up enlisting. Others warned against the risk of unwittingly divulging state secrets to enemy agents of espionage, imploring those with access to sensitive information to keep their goddamn mouths shut about it for once in their lives. More often though they aspired simply to boost morale among non-combatant civilians. Namely, women. [Can’t live with ‘em, can’t declare war without ‘em.] Picture Rosie the Riveter, flexing on ‘em hoes. We Can Do It, she said. Or the motivational ‘ism you may now associate with the lady in the adjacent cubicle workstation, where it’s printed on twenty-American pound copy paper beneath a Tudor Crown, for to keep her going until half past six when she can finally pour that first glass of ice cold Pinot Grigio into the corporate retreat-coffee mug because the wine glasses [set of two] are still languishing in the sink from some weeknights’ past by:

Keep Calm And Carry On.

One of the best Don’t Mess TV spots — the resistance piece, as it’s called in Paris, Texas — opens with two Good ‘Ole Boys driving on down the highway in their piece of shit truck, red dirt country western fiddle music playing on the AM/FM Radio, when suddenly the driver tosses some rubbish out the window. Then, in hot purusuit of the pair of bubbas in the pickup, a military bomber plane appears o’er the horizon. It’s not any piece of shit old airbus either. Of that, you can bet your sweet ass. For a fact, it’s a B-17 Flying Fortress, and a quite famous one to boot, insofar as it’s a fixture at air shows around the country. Sentimental Journey, as it’s known, so nicknamed after a popular song sung by Doris Day.

Never thought my heart could be so yearning

Why did I decide to roam?

I gotta take this sentimental journey

Sentimental journey home

A different fifties starlet is featured on the nose art of this famous plane. She was the number one pin-up girl of the Second World War, and arguably by extension the most masturbated-to woman on the Planet Earth at one time — the glamorous Miss Betty Grable. [What about Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, Joan of Arc, Aphrodite, Mary Magdalene or Eve, you ask? Were historical-slash-mythological sex symbols cranked off to by the fapping masses?]

Grable was the first ever celebrity to have a part of her body insured as a publicity stunt. Her legs — or gams, or stems … as they may well have been referred to, in the parlance of those times — were covered by a policy valued at One Million US Dollars by the UK insurance marketplace Lloyd’s of London. Subsequent celebrity appendages or otherwise anatomic features to have been since underwritten include: Actress Julia Roberts’ Smile, Musician Dolly Parton’s Bosom, Dancer Fred Astaire’s Feet and Actress-Musician-Dancer Jennifer Lopez’s Gluteus. Although J-Lo has steadfastly denied such speculation as to the appraisal of her posterior. it has been reported to be covered to the tune of three hundred million bucks. [Good luck stuffing that in your G-string!]

As for Betty Grable, who became known as the Girl with the Million-Dollar Legs, upon reflection on her film career, she said famously: I became a star for two reasons. I’m standing on them.

In an homage to the barely-latent homoerotic fighter pilot film Top Gun [the whole movie is about buzzing towers], an airman comes over the radio with a request. Ghost Squadron to Ghost Squadron Leader — we’ve got one in sight, he says in his laconic, Chuck Yeager drawl. Let’s make an impression … Over.

Something to think about if you throw trash on Texas highways, the voice actor now narrates in a twang, that which is considerably less convincing. Somebody up there is gon’ be watchin’ … And you don’t want to mess with the Texas Confederate Air Force. [Since renamed the Commemorative Air Force — the membership determined that the antebellum moniker would be detrimental to fundraising efforts — the CAF exists to restore and exhibit historical planes, not run air raids into Mexico or Oklahoma as the name would suggest. The State of Texas does have an Air National Guard. Notable former members include: the forty-third president of these United States, George W. Bush. His service record, rendered entirely stateside at the height of the American involvement in Southeast Asia, became shrouded in controversy during his campaign for reelection against Democratic Party nominee and more-distinguished military veteran of the conflict in Vietnam, Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts. Bush the Younger scored somewhat modestly on his pilot aptitude test, for one thing, raising questions as to his qualification for gaining admittance into flight school. His father, H.W., was a congressman serving Texas’ fifth district at the time, it should be noted. Also, there was allegedly a rather extended period of time during which the airman’s presence could not be accounted for at mandatory drills, for which the armed services has a word or rather an acronym. Dubya never publicly addressed the controversy, but in his acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention four years prior, the then-Texas Governor did have this to say to the assembled delegation:

To those who would malign our state for political gain … Don’t Mess With Texas.)

Ain’t that they say how looks can be deceitful? The cowboy said back to Mick, a quarter-grin rustling up beneath his bristly mustache.

Beyond being less burdensome on the environment than bottles, cans also made for much more efficient storage, perfectly cylindrical that they are, thus making for more cost-effective means of refrigeration and distribution. Hank would also point out how for purposes of blocking light, aluminum is far superior to glass. (Have you noticed that with some exceptions, most American beers are packaged in brown bottles? Likewise, maybe you’ve drank an imported beer from a green glass bottle. Did it have a skunky taste? Light exposure was the probable culprit. Green, or god forbid clear glass makes beer more susceptible to oxidizing, which is a just fancy way to say turning skunk. Ironically, these inferior green bottles are often associated with more aspirational beer brands. That’s only because green bottles were introduced as a substitute during the nineteen forties, when all the brown glass was reallocated to wartime production for some reason. Only the blue bloodiest of European beerhouses could afford the switch to green, hence the consumer misconception that the color connotes a higher quality, which lingers to this day. As for clear bottles, there are some mass-produced Mexican lagers that still make use of them, but only as a means to showcase their golden color, which shines like the Spanish words for Crown or Sun.) Harmful UV rays are the publicans’ nemeses, Hank would often say. In more ways than one, referring to his contempt for natural light polluting an ale house’s dim ambiance, thus disrupting the shame-based ritual of daytime drinking. Much time as he spent in the Great Outdoors — a great deal of it before the advent of sunscreen (another innovation that came along around the time of jogging, aluminum and the awareness of littering and drunk driving to be social ills) — Hank seemed to hold a stubborn grudge against The Sun. Fair as thin, t’was his skin.

So anyways, when Hank got a line on a cannery with reasonable enough rates, he signed a purchase order for ten thousand units. Then he got the Mick to draw the label for the first beer, free gratis of course. There was a precious little campfire scene set against a kelly green backdrop — a guacho-type with a guitar, his companeros singing along, beneath a blanket of stars. Above it, in the western-kind of font they’d a used to write WANTED on the poster, was the beer’s dim ambiance, thus disrupting the shame-based ritual of daytime drinking. Much time as he spent in the bottom, the tagline in italicized cursive with calf-roped characters: Take it outside.

(Hank originally wanted to call it Nature Calls, something he thought to be similarly evocative of a sessionable-slash-crushable ale you might take along camping, or for to hydrate after a pleasure hike. But the Mick objected on the grounds that customers might associate the Nature Calls name with drinking piss. Why don’t we just call it Golden Shower IPA, he suggested in jest. Not a bad idea, Hank thought, unawares of the sex act wherein one party urinates consensually upon his or her partner.)

The Cowboy might could have related personally to that other drawing of the Mick’s, as it appeared on the BFIPA can, having sat around his fair share of cookstoves under a crackling flame. He hadn’t ordered a can though. This was on draft. The sketch he was currently drinking in — of Hank riding the bison with the medical wolf hot on his heels — was more of the surrealism movement.

Partner, you paint a hell of a picture. Reminds a feller of the Guernicer, if you’re familiar with the life and works of the hombrecito, Señor Pablo. With allusions to the wildlife and the warfare that which I’m referring. But don’t take my word for it. I’m no art critic. Anyhow, what brings you roundabout this way, amigo?

I work here. Actually, we all of us do … Work here.

Is that a fact? Well, shoot. I figured the handsome couple behind the bar for its keepers, but if I’d known I’d been the only guest I’d have just a soon skedaddled. I truly do hate to impose on your tidying up for closing time.

Really it’s no bother. But we are about to do Last Call, if you’re thirsty for one more. And LJ and TJ here are twin sister and brother, to be clear.

You don’t say. I’ll be damned then. I would have bet an entire month’s wage that that was a lovers’ quarrel they were engaged in. I find it’s best to stay out of the romantic affairs of others, so long as they ain’t turned violent. In this case then I can offer how that ain’t no way for a brother to talk to his sister. Or reverse-wise, for that matter.

Overhearing this, Thadeus offered right back:

Ayo … Yosemite Sam. What about you mind your fucking business. You heard the Mick … Order up, close out, or hit the bricks, Chief.

Well, pardon me, buster. I didn’t mean any offense. Just that it weren’t very Christian is all.

At that, Louisa clarified:

Hey, asshole. We’re Mormon. What the fuck are you? Besides some hillbilly with a big fucking mouth.

Here Zeke felt compelled to chime in. Always with the impeccable timing.

I’m sorry for our friends’ unfriendly affects, Sir. It’s just that emotions are running pretty high around here. You see we suffered a recent loss.

You can shut the fuck up yourself, Zeke. / Oh, suck my fucking dick, Zeke.

Thadeus and Louisa, respectively speaking, had a special way about them, in which they could rejoin in a two-part harmonious round. Sort of like: Row, Row, Row Your Boat / Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily. Except with more swears. (Parental Advisory: Explicit Content … Row Your Boat Remix Ft. Two Live Crew.) Part of that ESPtwiN Hank was so keen on.

Until now, the Mick hadn’t considered that maybe Zeke was on to something, in that the gruesome twosome had been riled up something extra by all the Hank … Stuff. Even considering their lofty standards for lowdown behavior, they had been seeming especially feral today, come to think of. For that matter so had everybody else been acting peculiar. Like how Grace, for example, had been caught twice, tongue-kissing at her place of work. And Zeke’s sensitivities seemed heightened all the more. As for Kitty, she had on that look she got sometimes. Like there were something she so desperately wanted to say, but the words required were just beyond the barbed wire fence of her comprehension.

That’s mighty generous of you, Hoss, but the apologies are all mine. There I go, talking wise again, telling other folks how to act. Like I ain’t a sinner my own self. And here you are in a mourning state to boot. It ain’t right and I’m awful sorry about it. Truly, I am.

If it pleases, I’d very much like to make up for my bullheadedness. Allow me to buy the saloon a round. One for the road.

Hearing tell of a free drink, Grace abruptly awoke from her hormonal daze. Leaning over the bar, she reached up to ring the bell, thus notarizing the transaction.

Hey, Louie. You heard the man. Line ‘em up.

Hey, Grace. As soon as Zeke’s through, you can have a turn licking my hairy balls.

Louisa fetched six taster glasses with one and a half hands and filled them in one contiguous pour of Bar Fight. It was Newfy policy to do beer shooters whenever some big swinging dick bought the bartenders a round. The Cowboy got a full pint for his trouble and raised it to the Mick.

Condolences also for your dearly departed friend. I’d say let’s drink to his memory, but I make it a policy of only toasting to present company. By that I mean the living among us. So how about then we hoo-ray to the ar-tiste here. You seem to be the top banana in this outfit. Mick, was it? Or did I catch a The in there? What’s your Christian name, son? If you don’t mind mine asking the one last question.

Solomon, David Michael.

Well then here’s to you, Señor Solomon.

Thadeus tossed his back without breaking eye contact with the Cowboy. It was hard to look tough taking a shot of beer but damned if he wouldn’t try.

The Cowboy took a long snort, reared back in appreciation, and then took another. It’s a fine ale you fellers brew here. Myself, I'm a habitual tequila drinker. But when somebody makes something — be it a sturdy saddle or a cozy pair of socks or even a tray of piping-hot sourdough biscuits … Well what I’m trying to say is when somebody makes something, and when they know what they’re doing, well you can tell is all. A man can take pride in that. I got one last thing coming for you and then I promise to be out of your curly hair forever. Mister David Michael Solomon. Known alias: The Mick. You’t try.

The Cowboy reached at his hip pocket, drew a creased yellow envelope, slapped it on the bartop in front of Mick and turned to tip his hat at Kitty.

Ma’am.

His boots made a click-thudding sound on the parquet floor as he heel-toed his way out the front door. While it closed behind him, Mayor Mockingbird the Cat slinked back across the waning threshold.

You sneaky bitch! / That fucking sandbagger!

Just as soon as they’d processed how they’d been duped, Thadeus and Louisa couldn’t hardly wait to express their utter shock and disapproval.

The Mick meanwhile didn’t move a muscle. Absolute stillness was his way of dealing with situations which unmoored him.

Kitty thought, well then I must be dreaming after all. And as one does in a dream, she played along, reaching across the bar at the strange document. Subconsciously or not, being the family bookkeeper she felt an obligation to act as the Mick’s proxy in this matter.

Dear Sir or Madam … Brought to our attention … infringement upon intellectual property … response requested … It’s just a cease and desist letter. Then why did he send a process server disguised as a Cowboy?

Just a C&D? From who though?

It says Compliments of the Law Office of Shanker and Schuster, Esqs., on behalf James Francis Delano and #x_brüing, LLC.

His middle name is Francis?

This seems highly irregular, but it’s asking you to issue a formal in-person response. But not at like a deposition or anything. At the brewery. Jamie’s place. And he gave a specific date and time. Tomorrow night, seven pm.

Cool — nope.

The Mick had never been to #x_brüing for a visit with his former assistant brewer. There were a great number of places he would rather be. Back to Temple. A Michael McDonald concert. Gone to see Dr. Jackson for a root canal.

Kitty however had a feeling. This was leading somewhere. Maybe no place good, but some place else to be sure.

Well, come on then, baby. I guess tomorrow night we go to see about Dandy Jim.

#novls of tumblr #don't mess with texas

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