So there we were, at last, at the terrible end of our journey, surrounded by the finest pedigree of Texas prime blood. These boys are a special breed, and are unique to the vicinity of Central Texas. They are instantly recognizable- white button down shirts, UT hats, redwing boots, faded Levi 101's, brown leather belts- but there is something else- a genuine air of wealthiness, a mixture of boyhood ranch experience and white- collar breeding- a certain cleanliness that seems bestowed by their mothers.
These guys, unlike serious ranchers or cowboys (who most certainly still exist), are very rarely dirty. They never stink, and their hair is usually very soft and well kept, parted down the side but slightly shaggier than in boyhood. They have a predelection towards business school- they have good connections. I understand this because I grew up with the mongrels. I watched their development, and this has given me a special insight into this strange country boy/city socialite mindset.

I eased around the club, trying to avoid eye contact. But it was too late. One of them recognized me, and came barreling through the sea of his pledge brothers, shouting my name and waving, his face red with drink and the rut. I cursed under my breath, but what could I do? I have, after all, had relatively close contact with this type since boyhood. Some of their fathers are friends or business acquaintances of my father's, and I had played baseball in youth with this particular fellow. He reached me, and my drink met violently with the bar as he slammed into me, wrapping me in his one- armed embrace, and I was engulfed in a pungent mixture of Chaps cologne and whiskey, the former being the choice scent for his brood.

" How ye doin' boy?" he bellowed, and the din swept up his voice, and very few of his comrades took notice. He squeezed me hard, and I was grinning, but desperate to escape. The threat of recognition by someone more influential was very apparent. They were here, I was sure of it. They would box me in, then shuffle me off to a small lavender room to work out on my ribs and fingernails... and I would surely spill the beans, the motive of our adventure would be revealed. And after that, only God knew what these punks were capable of- especially after they had counted me as their own, and I had decieved them- I would be flogged, branded as a traitor, a very uncomfortable standing to hold in this lot.

But what? Do I see Herbert Hayworth striding up through the crowd? Now? Here? What the fuckhell in the Kingdom of Jesus was he doing here? He was not welcome among such circles, he had worked hard and long to put down many of thier legislative agendas. Strangely, in the same moment I saw him, and the dim spark of hope alighted in me, I heard the Grateful Dead come on the speakers- someone with balls had put on "New Minglewood Blues", and the good boys that closed in on all sides liked it, but thankfully they didn't know what it was.
"Saving Grace", I muttered under my breath, and wriggled my shoulders imperceptibly, but enough to allow my old friend to react, letting his arm drop and turning his wayward attention
away from me, towards a younger pledge who had spilled punch down his front, but didn't seem to notice.

Hayworth took his advantage, and sidled up next to me, his hat brim low over his eyes."What the fuck?", I whisper-screamed in his ear. "Are you crazy? Don't you see the company you're in? They know your face. These fuckers will bash you like a pinata. Get out- you'll be lucky if you last that long."
I was very, very far gone in drink and craziness, which allowed me to speak in this manner to my boss, but Hayworth looked at me cooly.
"I'll tell you what you're going to do," he said conversationally. "You're going to get straight , get that crazy fear off your face, and talk to your friend there"- he nodded towards the large fellow, who now had the young, semi-conscious pledge by the shirt collar, and was slinging him back and forth, while laughing and muttering something about his mother and goats. "See if you can't get a sit- down with his dad- yes I know who he is- maybe tomorrow. They don't know you work for me."
"Someone does, goddamnit!" I whispered. "They lit up our limo like a lantern. They'll do it again."
"That was Colson's limo, that you stole, for no good reason other than your desire to do historic things. It was a message for him, probably."
"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why- Jesus, this whole thing is starting to get a little heavy," I moaned. "If there were going to be car- torchings, I wish I had known, so that I could arm myself properly."