He looking down With scorn or pity on the slippery state Of kings, will tread upon the neck of fate.

The most interesting thing to the chicken fanciers—and the thirsty also—was an ice cream parlor in Morrison. Before we left […] the town ran short on all brands of beer (near, Root, etc.), and the thirsties of the crowd were reduced to the tamer pastime of eating oranges and cracking peanuts.

I said I don't think you can do it again. But he just bellylaughed and said I don't mean that.

The slug they dug out of him was a .22. A woman's gun? Or was I being a sexist oinker?