You slurp a swig of your beer down fast. Shit, you are at the bar, you want to talk sports and spit on the floor. The dude in the wilting pompadour exhales some of that blue smoke in your face. You look over. He's got some sort of a half-sneer on his face, but he has the gentlest eyes you have ever seen on a fellow. "Seen that head-first slide Ol' Wilkerson made last night on the replays? He stuck his hand in right before the tag, a Thing of Beauty!" you say, really getting excited about it. "Nope." "Seen that Pistons game last night?" you say, thinking maybe he doesn't care for baseball. "Nope. I don't really follow sports... I mean, I am all for danger and dynamic bone-jarring competition but I prefer to go without the coach and the ref and the sportscaster..." You don't know what he is talking about. He makes a little flick of a gesture and the bowl of snacks on the bar slides closer your way. They look nice and salty. This could be a long night, maybe you should get something in your stomach. You reach over for a treat and suddenly you feel a leathery paw upon your unknowing innocent hand. He must not have seen you grab the snack mix. You go to withdraw your hand. Eww, he's got you. And he's wearing bowling gloves or something. "You ever thumb-wrestle?" he asks. "I got trophies back home. Texas league, Lower 'Bama, Arkansas. I move around a bit. Work on rigs. Barges. Long haul trucking. I'm a barnstormer, a roughneck, a whatchoucallit. Anyway I cover a lot of ground. I got league champ nine years straight in six different leagues. How many is that?" "Fity-four." "Gotta be more than that." "No, nine times six. Fifty-four"' "What? You challenging me? You and your runty little puny thumbs?" He's still got you. Like some kind of Hungarian Python. "Listen, buddy, I..." "Fifty-four. More like fifty-four hundred and fifty-four. Got to put a lot of miles on the rig to get that many medals and t-shirts. Got a silk jacket with stitching on the back. Got a tattoo. Got--" "Got my thumb, that's what you got." "Lotta guys, bigger guys than you, lotta guys got broken thumbs. Chronic broken carpal syndrome, that's what I'll give you." This is the kind of guy who goes on and on and on and on. Meanwhile you can't stop stealing glances at the girl from school. She's looking back. "Enough warmups. On the count of three, now. 1, 2..." You take your other thumb, gouge his eye, pinch his nose, and suckerpunch him off his chair. Not very nice, and very un-characteristic of you, but still, the scenario was dragging on. As he falls off of his barstool, he pulls you with him. He still has your thumb in a thumb-wrestling clasp. His head makes a nice thud on the ground and he is out cold. You pry at his hand but can't get out of his grip. Shucks, now you have to wait for him to come to. You pour a little Stroh's onto him. Nothing. You take his lit cigarette and singe his pompadour, which has reformed itself after hitting the floor. Finally he starts twitching. Still, he will not relinquish your thumb. You take your loose hand and make a fist. Then you slide your free thumb in between your fingers. "Hey buddy." "What?" He is making grunts in the midst of his convulsions. "Buddy." You wave your hand in front of his face and then tweak his nose again. "I got your nose." He shrieks. He howls. He lets go and brings his hands up to his face. Before he gets another grip on your thumb, you turn towards the tough girl. Now you are ready for some small talk, some roundabout seduction, some out and out bald-face lies. To go speak to her, go to page 3. To resume your battle royale with the leather-pawed oil derrick driver barge captain, go to page 19