"Stop it, you whore." Lee kicked Val in the ass. She whirled and swung at Lee. Lee backhanded her and Val fell over a chair. Lee spit in Alex's face and yelled, "You hit my woman!"

The band stopped its interpretation of "Faster Horses". The patrons turned to the confrontation. A retiree at the pool table asked if anyone wanted to make wagers on the fistfight.

"Wait until I tell your daughter what Daddy's doing on weekends. Gettin' drunk and slappin' women." Alex wiped the spit from his face, then gripped the lapels of Lee's shirt. He pulled sharply, as if opening curtains, and the buttons popped off.

Lee quickly yanked his shirttail back over the pistol he’d stuck in his pants, but Alex saw the handle between Lee's bony hip and jeans.

"You're chickenshit, carrying a gun," Alex whispered. Nobody else saw the gun. The customers, along with the band's three musicians, formed a circle around Alex and Lee. The bartender enjoyed the excitement. She lit a cigarette, poured herself a whiskey, and put her feet up.

Alex heard the retiree taking bets. "I'm not much of a fighter, but I'd still bet on me to whip this cornholer." He pulled his cowboy hat down until it shaded his forehead and eyes. The betting increased, and in one minute the retiree had seventy eight dollars crumpled in his fist. "Winner of the fight gets free drinks and ten bucks."

"Twenty bucks," Lee yelled. Val had risen and pulled twenty dollars out of her purse. "I bet on the cowboy."

"You gonna stand there faggot, or you gonna fight?" Lee stuck his thumbs into his pocket and sneered.

"I'm gonna stick my fist up your ass, queer." Alex parodied Lee's pose, fists on hips and lips pursed.

The customers laughed. Lee began to laugh along with them, but he suddenly threw a haymaker. The punch missed. Alex swung back, but Lee ducked and landed a one-two. Alex pawed at his bleeding nose.

Another one-two struck Alex’s mouth. Alex’s counterpunch was feeble, as if thrown by an arthritic. Lee wind-milled several shots to Alex's face and stomach. Alex dropped to one knee and Lee kicked his chest. The impact was loud, and the customers roared.

"Kill him, Lee!" someone screamed.

Lee whooped and kicked Alex's head. Alex fell onto his side and shielded his face with his hands. Lee kicked him three more times, exhilarated. "Rip my shirt, ya shit! Faggot!" He lifted a chair over his head. Val screamed at Lee to stop, and the retiree laughed. As Alex rolled onto his stomach, Lee gripped one leg of the chair and swung hard. The chair crashed against Alex's head and broke in half. Only the chair's leg remained in Lee's grip, and he twirled it like a gunfighter twirling his smoking six-shooter.

Three customers pulled Lee away. Marty, who had bet on Alex, hunched over Alex and wondered what to do. Alex was motionless, and Marty poked cautiously at him, as if he were a frog squished on the road.

"Whydya have to use the chair on him, ya prick?" Marty complained.

Lee wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and demanded half the kitty. "Never laid a hand on me," Lee boasted.