Big Leroy Brontus was born in a cardboard box behind Uncle Jake’s Tavern, Chain Saw Repair, Barbershop and Notary Public. In only twenty-two years without a bath, he became the biggest, toughest, stinkingest sonofabitch in South Hooterville – mean enough to eat the furniture, and often did, so they said.

Leroy got drunk on muscatel, kicked the dogshit outta Sweet Willie Ragsdale and did a month in the county jail. Dead broke, mad as hell, and not a lick smarter than when he went in, he paroled out. He stole a pistol from Freddie Joe Clapsaddle’s F150 and robbed the Second Bank of Commerce. “Gimme the money, punk!” he ordered, just like on TV.

Well hell yes, the cops commenced chasing him right off the bat. Leroy stunk too bad to avoid detection. Fleeing with the stash up the middle of Central Avenue, he collided head on with a Greyhound bus bound for Memphis. Leroy got under it instead of on it.

The city paid to funeralize him, but nobody came.

“Lord?” The preacher clutched his bible and looked heavenward. “Ol Leroy ain’t nearly so tough dead, but I’d strongly recommend you don’t horse around and consider lettin’ his stinkin’ ass in the door up there. Dadgum shame you didn’t think to go Greyhound years ago.” He reverently closed the bible. “Okay, boys. Toss in some dirt. It’s Miller Time.”