“That’s why I always buy in bulk, Greg ol’ boy.” I said, knocking back the rest of my pitcher.
Four hours later I had a nice buzz going, and Greg was facedown in a puddle of Bud on the table. I didn’t mind the alcohol abuse too much, pitchers were on special. I was watching SportsCenter for about the seventh time when three rednecks wandered over to my table. It was about fifteen minutes past last call, so I had my sunglasses on in anticipation of the ugly lights coming on, but I could still see plenty to know this was not going to end well for the rednecks.
The first one was a wiry little fella, just to type who always starts crap with me. He was about five-nine and a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, wearing spit-polished cowboy boots to make himself feel taller and a cowboy shirt and
