Chester Pratt had a splitting headache, paying for last night when he’d drained half a bottle of Beam and passed out on the kitchen floor. He woke up late, drank two Miller Lites with some Goody’s headache powder, and made sure Bluebird Liquors was up and running by ten a.m. By eleven, he’d left the day manager at the register and headed into town to grab some breakfast at the Fillin’ Station diner. Chester knew there wasn’t a thing that some fried meat, a plate of eggs, and some black coffee couldn’t solve.

He sat there in the back corner of the restaurant, right by the partition to the banquet room where kids usually got handed out Little League trophies, and during darker times the Klan used to meet up on Thursday night as plain and regular as if they were the damn Jaycees. Chester’s daddy had been there; his uncle, too. Somewhere in storage, Chester had been handed down his uncle’s purple robe, never having the time or inclination to toss the damn thing in the dumpster.

“You look like you need a refill, sweetie,” said the waitress, a kindly old woman named Miss Mary who’d been waiting tables since Methuselah was in grade school.

“Appreciate that.”

“Can I get you something else?” she asked. “You haven’t even touched that bacon.”

“No, ma’am,” Chester said. “Just feeling a little poorly this morning. My stomach ain’t right.”

“Well,” Miss Mary said. “There’s been a flu going around. Hope that ain’t it.”

“Truth be known, ma’am,” he said, “I got the kind of sickness you find at the bottom of a bottle. My own damn fault.”

She smiled at him and winked, refilling his coffee and bringing him an extra ice water. Chester felt as if he sat there another twenty minutes, he just might be able to make it through the day at the liquor store and be able to come to some kind of plan that would appease ole Johnny Stagg. The last thing in the world he wanted was to split the damn deed with that man. There was no cornholing in the world like getting cornholed by the devil himself.

At that very moment, on cue and on time, those two nasty-ass sonsabitches, the Nixes, walked through the front door of the Fillin’ Station, bell jangling over their little heads and stubby little arms while their coal-black eyes wandered over the open restaurant. Miss Mary told them they could take a seat up at the counter, but those old boys weren’t here for the country ham and biscuits. They walked straight on over to where Chester Pratt sat wearing sunglasses and in need of some alone time, taking a seat at the booth right next to his and accepting a menu from old Miss Mary.