Miriam's mouth forms an O. She winces and laughs. "Holy shit, dude. You know the punch line to my joke and then you come back with a knee-slapper about child abuse? You know what? Fine. When the apocalypse finally comes, I promise to let you live. My name's Miriam."

"Miriam's an old lady's name."

"Well, I do feel old."

"I can make you feel young again."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, hell. You were doing so well."

"Tell you what, how about this one?," he says, idly peeling the label from his sweat-slick beer. "I'm going to go to the Little Wrangler's room, paint the urinal a prettier shade of yellow. Then I'm going to preen in the mirror, because I want to look good for you. I'll wash my hands, of course. I'm dirty, but not that kind of dirty. When I'm done, I'll dry off, and then come back out here."

"Thanks for the play-by-play. You gonna diddle your balls while you're in there?"

He ignores her. "If you're still out here, then it's on. I'm going to hit on you like kids on a piñata. You'll laugh. I'll laugh. You'll touch my hand. I'll touch your hip. And you'll come home with me."

Ashley smirks, crumples up the wet label, and shoots it right into her shot glass.

"Ass," she says.

He gets up and strolls to the back.

She watches his ass as he walks. Bony. Enough to grab hold of, though.

She watches as he passes a trio of bikers hovering around the pool table. An old guy peers out from behind a curtain of feathered gray hair. Fella next to him is short and stocky, his whole body stacked like a pack of hot dogs. The last guy, looking like an extra from Thunderdome, is a living, biological mountain. Six-six, his big bones layered with a topography of muscle and fat. His treetrunk arms are home to a mess of ink: an old lady's face, a tree on fire, a bunch of skulls, a motorcycle on fire. He's a Fat Dude.

Fat Dude is just about to shoot. Stick back. Giant melon head peering over it.

Ashley pushes past him. His bony hip bumps the pool stick.

The stick scrapes the table green and nudges the cue ball into the corner pocket.

A scratch.

Fat Dude turns on Ashley. If they were outside, he would block out the sun. The ground would tremble. Magma might belch up from the fractured earth.

Ashley smiles. Fat Dude seethes. A fly – probably fattened from an earlier meal of floor-stuck cheese fries – is caught in the airspace between these two, then hurries it the fuck out of there.

"You fuckin' prick," Fat Dude says. "You fucked my shot."

Ashley just smiles that smile, and that's when Miriam knows they're in trouble.

SIX

Closing Time

"So reshoot," Ashley says, eyes twinkling.

"Can't do that," Fat Dude says, as if Ashley just suggested he fuck his own mother. "Rules are rules, asshole."