The Adventures of Slim & Howdy by Bill Fitzhugh, Kix Brooks, Ronnie Dunn

in this part of Tarrant County.
    As Howdy approached the mayhem, he could see it was a tight fight with a short stick, Buddy having the advantage, after jumping Slim without benefit of advanced warning. In such close quarters, both were reduced to throwing stunted punches at kidneys, noses, and the back of each other’s heads. From somewhere in the middle of it all Buddy growled, “I’m fixin’ to clean your plow, boy.”
    And not only did it sound like he meant it, but it looked like he was capable.
    In the midst of all this, Slim managed to plant a boot heel in Buddy’s gut, knocking him backwards over one of the pool tables. While prone on the green felt, Buddy kept Slim at bay by hurling the three, six, and eight balls in his direction. Although Buddy had been an all-state pitcher his senior year in high school, being drunk, horizontal, and twenty years older took a good bit of the mustard off his delivery. Slim, a good Pony League first baseman with that long stretch of his, ducked the first two balls, then caught the eight in his bare hand and threw it back, just grazing the side of that bulldozer jaw. Buddy reacted by grabbing a cue stick like he was going to step up to the plate with it. He rolled off the table and choked up on the stick, eyeing Slim’s head like it was a big fat one coming over the plate.
    Slim was trapped by overturned tables and was backed into a booth. He was looking around for a weapon—why the hell that dumb-ass Howdy had thrown that pistol into the trash can still escaped him—but there was little to choose from that matched up real good with a pool cue. So he grabbed a longneck, broke the bottom off, and started swinging it back and forth the way you do in circumstances such as this.
    Buddy had a look in his eye that you can bet Ginger had seen at least once as he closed in and drew into his backswing. But the damn thing got stuck. He couldn’t bring it around for a base hit, let alone a dinger. Confused, he turned and saw Howdy at the other end of the stick. “Who the hell’re you?” he barked.
    “I’m the one who came here to whoop that boy’s ass,” Howdy said, one hand on the cue stick, the other pointing at Slim. “Question is, who the hell
you
are.”
    “I’m the one who’s
currently
whooping his ass,” Buddy replied, tugging on the cue. “Let go of my stick and get in line. I got here first.”
    “I don’t care when you got here,” Howdy said, tugging back. “I got a reservation.”
    The confusion compounded like interest on Buddy’s face. “How the hell you think you got a reservation to kick somebody’s ass?”
    Howdy jerked the stick out of Buddy’s grip, poked him in the chest with the blue-chalk tip, said, “That guitar Casanova there took advantage of my girl a couple of nights ago while she was drunk and I was outta town. That’s how.”
    Buddy swatted the stick away when Howdy tried to poke him a second time. “Well then your reservation musta been for
last
night when this sumbitch was in here taking advantage of
my
girl.”
    “What?” Like he was outraged by the notion of such sexual recklessness. Looking past Buddy, Howdy aimed the cue stick at Slim. “Boy, you best learn to keep that one-eye trouser trout of yours in its pen, you expect to see another birthday.” He made a move like he was going to charge Slim, but Buddy shoved him back.
    “Hey, asshole, like I said, get in line. You can have him when I’m done.”
    Howdy looked at Buddy, then Slim, giving the appearance of appraising the situation. Then he shook his head. “Nosir.” Like it was one word. “I don’t think there’d be enough left to make it worth my while.”
    “Ain’t my problem,” Buddy said. “Sloppy seconds is all you’re gone get.” He was rolling up his sleeves now.
    The other patrons were watching like it was a Jerry Springer special:
Live at the Piggin’ String!
Skeets was at the bar, smiling as he sipped a beer, enjoying the entertainment, like it was