“But it was the appropriate response for Doc Holliday.”

“I’m sorry but I have no alternative but to sentence you to three years of hard labor at the state camp for fucking and fighting. During your term of incarceration you will be trained in the fine art of close-order knuckle drill, since the court believes that before you can fuck, you have to be able to fight. Parole will depend on your progress in performing satisfactorily in each of these two categories. The court usually grants the defendant the right to speak after sentencing, but your conduct thus far leads the court to suspect that something other than words will come from your mouth. Take him away!”

I was led to a door which had printed on it: WOLF TICKETS AND ASS KICKING. The room was packed with men of the hard-headed and backbutted variety. Two dudes were in the center of the room louding each other. One of them was Otis.

“So what’s your problem, man?

“I ain’t got no problem. You got the problem.”

“What’s my problem?”

“Me, if you keep fucking with me!”

“Punk, you ain’t gonna do nuthin but leave me alone.”

“You believe that shit if you want to, but if I put hands on you, I’m takin your life!”

“Okay,” Otis said, “this is an example of the proper way to sell a wolf ticket. Now, I’d like two more volunteers to try it.” Chilly stepped forward. “Is there anyone else? What about you?”

“I just got here,” I said.

“Well, there’s no time like the present. Remember, he who hesitates is dead.” The circle of men tightened around us, and Chilly bumped my shoulder.

“Hey, man, why don’t you watch where you goin?” he said.

“I was watching where I was going,” I said. “It’s just that when such a frail-ass muthafucka like you walks down the street sideways I just automatically mark him absent.”

“Awwww, SHIT!”

“Talk about him!”

As I turned my head to acknowledge the acclamation, something plunged into my chest and sucked back. In Chilly’s hand was a pulsating mass of dripping tissue.

“I told you, you ain’t nuthin. I snatched your heart out. And it don’t even pump blood. It pumps Kool-Aid!”

“The chump don’t have no heart!”

“Fuck him up!”

“Waste his ass!”

Guards whisked me out of there to another room. Behind a desk was a dude cut from a Sonny Liston mold.

“You have a problem, Ellington?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re off to a bad start in becoming a bronze buckaroo.”

“I thought I sold a pretty good wolf ticket.”

“Yeah, but all that’s nullified when you let someone take your heart away from you. The value of a wolf ticket is having the heart to back it up. The baddest dudes usually don’t have to do any more than sell the ticket.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Well, the first thing is to get your heart back.”

“How do I do that?”