The Tabacky Kid

It was around that time a gang of young Ne’er-Do-Wells - a couple of upstart punks who never rustled a steer a day in their lives - cornered the Old Man and his wife.

“Well, well, well.” A baby-faced kid in a bowler derby clicked his tongue. He seemed to be the leader of the pack, even though he stood a solid foot shorter than the rest. “If it ain’t the Tah-Backy Kid. Looks like you gone mild, Tah-Backy. Real mild.”

The Old Man grimaced. He buried that name a long time ago. And plenty of bodies with it. Sneering little cherubs like this kid here; never once keen to listen to sense or reason. Course, at that age, he wasn’t either.

One of the gang pinched his wife’s arm. She recoiled with a yelp.

“Don’t fret, ma’am!” The boys chattered and heckled, wagging their tongues. “We got the spice you need. That special kick you’re looking for.”

“What’ll it be Tah-Backy?” The little angel brandished his weapon: a 7.5 OZ bottle of Taco Bell Fire! sauce. “Run if you’re scared. Me and the boys got no problem keepin’ your ol’ gal warm tonight.”

The Old Man felt her body press against his shoulder blades. She wasn’t shiverin’ none, but he could feel that quiet sadness of hers all the same.

Hell. What’s one more in the sauce?

“I hope you’ve worked up a tolerance, son.” The Old Man’s hand hung like a guillotine over his holster. “Cuz I still got the heat.” Ω¹