"Thanks so much," Miriam says.

Fat Dude grunts in reply. "You should leash your brother. Get him a tard helmet."

"I will consider that."

"We're drinking beer. Coors Light. But I think we'd like some shots. Tequila."

"Tequila, it is."

"The good stuff, too. Not that cheap-ass cactus juice."

Miriam gives him a thumbs-up, then offers her hand to Ashley. The gasps have stopped for the most part. He coughs once more. But he doesn't take her hand.

He looks up at her and smiles. She sees it coming, but like with a car-wreck, she's powerless to stop it.

Ashley punches Fat Dude in the groin.

It doesn't do anything, of course, because Fat Dude's got balls made of basalt. Fat Dude doesn't even flinch. He does look a bit surprised, though.

"Not cool," Fat Dude says.

Then he swings a roundhouse fist at Ashley's face, which remains at crotch-level.

Ashley, though, he's ready for it. He pulls his head back, and Fat Dude's boulder-fist whiffs through open air to connect with the corner of a two-seater bar table. Miriam sees the table break the first two fingers on Fat Dude's hand; they spring out like clothespins. She hears the break. Like someone splitting a branch over his knee.

Fat Dude, to his credit, doesn't cry out. He just slowly brings his busted hand to his face, examining it the way a gorilla might regard a stapler, or an iPod.

Chaos erupts.

Gray Pubes wraps his hands around Ashley's neck, but Miriam's fast: She gives a nearby high-back chair a good kick, so the tippy-top of it drives right into the guy's gut. He doubles over. Ashley, meanwhile, shoulders into Hot Dog's stubby knees, and the guy goes down.

Then: crack. A pool cue over Ashley's head. Fat Dude's left holding the broken half in his good hand. He laughs. This is fun for him.

Before she means to be, Miriam's in the middle of it. A fist is thrown; she's not sure by whom. She feels the air current pass by her chin – a narrow miss. Ashley's up, eyes crossed, and then he's back down again as Fat Dude throws him, his shoulder against the two-seater, the table flipping up like a see-saw.

Miriam sees a glint: Gray Pubes, clutching his nuts with one hand, draws a knife.

Hot Dog's hands shove her forward.

Fat Dude's raising the busted pool cue above Ashley's skull.

It's all happening so fast and, yet, so slow. She's dull at her edges. Half-drunk, frankly.

Time to end it. Time for Momma's Little Life Saver.

Miriam reaches in her pocket as Gray Pubes advances on her. She sidesteps Hot Dog. Fat Dude bellows something, and his fingers – even the broken, crooked ones – curl tight around his weapon. Miriam's hand finds what she's looking for. She has it out. And she's using it.

It's pepper spray. Fine grain. Shoots in a stream, not in a fog. Good for dogs, bears, and Fat Dudes.