Chapter One: Sexy Roy

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was times like these when if you so much looked at a man wrong he'd gut you from your spleen to your eyeballs. Yes, this was a world of a different nature where the gut did go from spleen to eyeballs. It was a world where someone could walk up the street screaming "FOR SHIZZLE MY NIZZLE" and not get shot eight times.

My friend Joe was one of those people. It was many a day I’d see him running down the street, screaming like a wild banshee on crack. Truth be told, we didn't realize there were words in that gibberish until his tongue flew off and started biting folks. And I don't mean that in figurative terms. I was one of the lucky few that escaped the tongue massacre of '37, but I’m not without my scars.

My name is Butch. Butch McFinnigan. And this is my story.

It was on that same day, in fact, ten years later, that Sexy Roy came storming into my office. He was called Sexy Roy after a bad bet that left him wearing women's undergarments on the corner of Seventh and Main. Why he didn’t just up and leave town with all the name-calling and ridicule, I’ll never know.

“YOU,” screamed Sexy Roy, spraying me with hate-filled spittle.

“Now you just calm down now, Sexy Roy,” I said warily, reaching for my gun in case it was a repeat of the tongue incident.

“DON’T CALL ME THAT,” he roared angrily, flailing his arms like one of them giant squids fished up in an epic life or death battle that you hear about at least twice a year. Then, as if remembering why he was here in the first place, he bellowed out another “YOU.”

I sighed. “What is it, Sex-” I stopped myself. I had to at least pretend to take him seriously; he seemed fairly mad. However, I couldn’t imagine why. “Roy?”

Sexy Roy calmed down a bit. “You stole my COW.”

Ah. That. I tried playing innocent. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Sexy Roy turned an interesting shade of violet. “DON’T PLAY DUMB, MCFINNIGAN. YOU KILLED, GRILLED AND ATE IT IN MY FRONT YARD.”

I crossed my arms. “It wasn’t me.”

He slammed a piece of paper on my desk. I leaned forward and read it. ‘Dear Sexy Roy, thanks for the cow. –BAMF’

He paused, and gave me an odd look. “Why the hell do you sign your name like that, anyway?”

I was getting tired of explaining. “Because I don’t want people to think I’m Buck Applegate M-you know, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Look, I’ll pay you back for your damn cow.”

Sexy Roy shook his head. “It’s too late for that. I’ll see you in HELL, McFinnigan.” He stormed out.

Seconds later, Joe came running in from his desk out front. “BUH! BUH! SEH WOY GAH HO.”

Living with my friend’s speech impediment for the last ten years, I’ve learned to decipher his words. “No, Joe, I’m married.”

He dived over my desk and tackled me to the floor, and that’s when Sexy Roy exploded.