Way I see it, Joe Fred, you ain’t got but one honorable choice. And don’t go blaming this on the Old Style. Not the way you carried on. All of us was drinking, but you didn’t see none of the rest of us squatting with our pants down in the bed of Travis’s new truck, did you?

I mean to say, some things a man can forgive. When you tipped his nineteen-footer showing off your kung-fu crap, didn’t nobody kick about it, even though Travis’s kids was on that boat. And Travis never held it against you the way you’se always grabbing at the mother of those kids. I’da popped you one, but he always shook it off. “Ain’t no ring on this finger,” he’d say. “She’s a free agent.” Truth is, I suspect he enjoyed watching Laurette pound you into Goop. But still, the man showed admirable restraint. Hell, he even let it slide when your damn pogo-cycle bounced out of control and killed two of his dogs.

This latest outrage, though, that’s a skunk of a different odor. A foul odor. You just don’t defile a man’s vehicle that way. Not unless you’re willing to pay for it. Not unless you’re ready for a round of Tuscaloosa Roulette.

So load it up, Joe Fred. Pop one of those quick-load cartridges into the Bit Shooter Screwdriver. Make sure it’s a good variety of bits in there – a flathead, a square, a torque, what-have-you. Then spin the cartridge, put the end to your temple, and slam the handle. If God’s smiling on you, he’ll give you the empty chamber. If he’s not, well, you’ll get the Philips.

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