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The Passion of Pistol Pete

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Pistol Pete's giant, wooden head was throbbing. Literally. Like a cartoon, which he sort of was, his head puffed up and deflated rhythmically, balloon-like and utterly terrifying. Ol' Pete wasn't feeling so hot. He rolled over, twisted up in the Driskill Hotel's 4000 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and muttered something in Oklahoman. His gunbelt was hung over the bedpost, and his jeans were in a puddle by the end of the bed. He tried to tug his Stetson down over his eyes, but remembered that it was part of his head. Sonuvabitch.

He reached over to the nightstand for a drink of water, but found only a warm glass of tequila, cloudy with too much bottled lime juice in it. There was a bottle of Evan Williams on the dresser. He carefully stood up, his massive head teetering, and rubbed his eyes. He flipped the radio on. A wavering, twangy song was playing. Pete recognized it as Jerry Jeff Walker's "That's What I Like About Texas."

Hey, you ask me what I like about Texas
It's Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes
Swimming in the sacred waters of Barton Springs

Maybe, Pete thought, I'd been a little too wild last night. Maybe I'm getting too old to carry on like that. The night had started at the Driskill bar, but a couple of drunk tech entrepreneurs wouldn't shut their goateed yaps about his three-foot wide, emergency orange cowboy hat. Lousy dudes. So Pete went down to The Chugging Monkey, had a few shots of Wild Turkey, and wandered back out to the street, watching two guys about 17 years old pound on a couple of bright orange Home Depot buckets. Thwap, thwap, thwap.

He had to admit to himself that he was guilty for the hangover, truly and deeply. He'd driven down to Austin early. He'd tuned into KOKE FM as soon as he was in range. He's stopped for kolaches and flipped off the new Baylor stadium on the way down. He was happy to be in Texas. But he never would have admitted it.

It's body surfing the Frio
It's Saturday night in Del Rio!
Driving across the border for some cultural exchange!

He got stopped at the door to The Library. Doorman didn't like his Oklahoma ID, it seemed. Secretly, neither did Pete. In his ID picture, he looked different, it's true. Younger. Like the Indian fighter and scout he used to be, before he decided to grow up, settle down, and earn some money as a mascot. It's fine work, the West Virginia Mountaineer said. Real easy.

In his ID picture, he looked happy. Smiling. His mustache was thicker and darker. He didn't carry that wine-o's five o'clock shadow. He even kept those caterpillar-like eyebrows under control. He walked away from the door as some frat boys, fake IDs in hand, laughed at him. He hiked up Red River and saw some kids conducting what he assumed to be a drug deal. For a brief second, he considered talking to them. Inquiring.

But, no. Look at them, he thought. Pimples everywhere. Barely children, certainly not men. His hand rested on his six shooter as he walked back down 6th Street and got in line in front of Maggie Mae's.

It's another burrito, it's a cold Lone Star in my hand!
It's a quarter for the jukebox, boys
Play the Son's of the mother lovin' Bunkhouse Band

Pete gagged a little bit when he heard the line about Lone Star. He'd had about fifteen the night before, and that wasn't counting the six pack he took back to the hotel after some UT grad students forced him to drink four glowing purple drinks in a row. He quietly sat back down on the bed and thought about the fact that a half dozen MBA student had stood around him, chanting, while he had four Purple Nurples.

He ran to the bathroom just in time to trip on the rug, fall halfway into the tub, and puke on his own lap. He turned the shower on without undressing. The shower filled with steam. His mind was a little cloudy, too. Why, he thought, did I try hitting on those girls? Why was I so excited? What did I think would happen?

Why did I drunk text Wilma the Wildcat?

When he got out of the shower, he didn't feel much better. He fumbled for his pocket watch. He was late. Out in front of the hotel he hailed a cab. They guy in the front was Ethiopian, or something. Not much of that in Stillwater.

"Where to, my friend?"

Pete scratched his chin. "Stadium, please."

"Okay, I right up this street here, be there in three minutes."

"It's fine," Pete sighed. "I'm in no rush."

The driver opened the sunroof so Pete could fit his head in the cab and turned left onto Red River Street.

Be excellent to each other.

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