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A cowboy headed east, pursued by his responsibilities and a monitor lizard holding a grudge; pushed on by the mysterious hitchhiker squeezing the bottle of tequila between her bare thighs while rolling a joint on the dashboard.
helped Janis into the passenger side, and noticed the Glock tucked into the back of her miniskirt, formerly hidden by her flowing baggy shirt: he was bound and determined to get that truck down the road and away from the man that he might’ve just beaten to death pure instinct and adrenaline screaming ‘Get Away, Quick’; but the determination wouldn’t keep the truck moving and it became obvious to Janis that they needed a new ride and she nudged him into pulling over and staying put as she jumped down in one fluid movement and stuck a well turned leg out onto the pavement toe in the air, heel on the ground, and then a thumb to the passing Explorer that was blissfully unaware, and thumping with the sound of a tricked out stereo system…
said the cowboy, and almost by instinct he ran to the back of the semi trailer and threw open the doors, out of which tumbled two Mexican men and a blue duffle bag; the men muttered, “Gracias, Asshole… Hey, what happened to the other guy?” and turned and walked off into the desert as the cowboy picked up the duffle bag and swung up into the back seat of the Explorer, next to Janis, who yanked at the zipper exposing six kilos of cocaine, neatly shrinkwrapped.
“There’s nothing wrong with passing through Dallas while on your way to a wedding,” the man said to the passenger seated next to him, foolishly forgetting to glance down to see whether or not the man was wearing cowboy boots.
As she stepped off the train, the Village People’s YMCA started belting out of her iPod and, almost simultaneously, she rounded the corner to see them; the Cowboy and the Indian.
Not a perfect date Her disappearing like that With that damn cowboy
Though modern American men were apt to carry enough personal belongings to warrant adopting the purse as a fashion necessity, they were collectively loathe to do so - in part, though they were not consciously aware of it, due to the memory of all those cowboys who died in the first reel of old Westerns because they couldn’t draw fast enough.
The cowboy roared into town in his shiny white ten cylinder dodge, chrome accents sparkling like diamonds in the noon sun; the indian heard the low rumbling growl and darted into the bushes, stringing up an arrow and squatting on his tattooed haunches.
The Indian was willing to let go of most all of his possessions just to escape the evil eye and binding lasso of the mad cowboy, and then it came to the whiskey…
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