"Strange Friends" (Cont.)

"Yep. Loaded up my truck last Wednesday and drove west. I'm just going to drive until I hit California. See the country at my own pace, meet some real people." He gave a hearty belch. "Try and stay grounded. I'm just a small town kid at heart."

I continued to stare at him. "Well, how to you like the country so far, Junior?"

He chuckled. "Junior, huh? You're only a couple of years older than me, Dog."

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't call me Dog."

"Sorry," he said nervously. He went back to his beer as the sounds of yet another hotly contested game of pool finished up over my left shoulder. "Anyway, I like it. I've had a lot of fun, done some cool things."

"You ever start a bar brawl?" I asked, turning up my beer.

"A what?" he said, his face crossing with an incredulous grin.

"A bar brawl." With wide eyes, he nodded no. "It's a Texas tradition. Just like in the movies. You see those guys over my shoulder, playing pool? Lets fight 'em. We could take them down, I've got your back."

"Yeah," he said, still smiling the goofy smile of a twenty-five year old millionaire. "Lets do this, brother."

He turned his beer up, then banged the bottle down on the bar. The bartender glared at him, and my new friend mouthed the word "sorry" to him.

We walked over to the pool table, where the playing field was down to two. I pulled out three quarters from my pocket and put them on the edge of the table.

I might as well have pulled down my pants and peed on the table to mark my territory.

"HEY!" slurred one of the remaining players, a short heavyset man wearing a Harley-Davidson vest. "This is our table, boy. We ain't giving it up. You can stick them quarters up yer butt for all the good they're gonna do you."

His friend, a taller bald man, laughed at Shorty's establishment of turf. Meanwhile, my new friend was circling around behind the taller player. He had picked up a pool cue and was closing in.

I hated to tell him, but this probably wasn't going to go the way it does in the movies.

"WAP!" went the sound as my new friend hit Baldy in the back with the pool cue. Except for developing a glare, Baldy didn't move. The cue stick didn't break, nor was there any reason to expect it to. There wasn't enough force behind it to kill a mosquito, let alone to knock a man down.

Baldy turned slowly. My new friend turned white.

Letting out what can only be described as a girlish scream, he turned and ran out the front door.

"I think that's our cue, fellas," I said. "Let's take a walk and see whose table this really is."

The happy couple was muttering under their rancid breaths, and making their way to the door. I walked up to the bartender.

"There's not going to be any trouble here," I said, extending my hand. As he shook it, he smiled when he felt the wad of bills in it. "There's no need to call anybody, I'll just handle this one."

The bartender smiled and nodded, then went back to his own business.

As we stepped outside, I found my new friend trying to dig his keys out of his pocket. I called him over.

"Man, I've got to get out of here," he whispered. "That guy didn't freakin' move when I hit him. He's an animal."

"Actually," I corrected, "you just did a remarkably crappy job of hitting him with the pool stick."

As he glared back at me, I tried to explain. "You don't hit him in the back, you hit him in the head. Don't hit him flat, that spreads out the impact. Now come on, we can still take these guys."

"I don't know," he said, trying to pull away. "I don't think I…I've never been in a fight before."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Well, you're a dancer, right?" he nodded. "Fighting is just like dancing. Let these guys get close, then swing a kick on them."

"Dance all over them," he chanted.

"Yeah," I said, perversely pleased with myself.

"Dance all over them. Dance all over them. Gotcha."

Baldy had walked up to us, and suddenly he was staring down the barrel of a very angry boy-band member.

"You ready for this, you big bald piece of crap? Here we go, Bay-Bee!"

He spun his body around, darted his elbows out twice and then swung his leg up high, hitting Baldy in the shoulder.

Baldy didn't move, except to raise his right fist and punch him directly in the chest. My new friend folded like a Wal-Mart tent. He made a sound wheezing like an old car with carburetor problems.

As Baldy stepped forward to finish the job, I figured it was time to step in.

-- Continued On Page 3