He wore cowboy boots and a mullet to match. He chewed and spit and drank too much. His voice was deep with a tinge of bluegrass and corn liquor. He smelled like Stetson and diesel fuel.
He had his first kid at fifteen and a bad back from looking for eight at the Paris Stockyards. He was twenty-six going on sixty, lucky to ever see forty.
"The guy had it coming," he explained, as though that equaled justifiable homicide.