It’s the ammonium nitrate their buddy Jenson had ready for them in Florida. Their buddy from the Gulf War. Our Reverend Godless.

 

 “You mean, like, fertilizer?” Webber says.

 

 And Flint says, “Half a ton.”

 

 Webber’s hand, it’s shaking so hard you can hear the ice rattle in his empty glass.

 

 That shaking, it’s just traumatic Parkinson’s is all. Traumatic encephalopathy will do that to you, where partial necrosis of brain tissue takes place. Neurons replaced by brain-dead scar tissue. You put on a curly red wig and false eyelashes, lip-synch to Bette Midler at the Collaris County Fair and Rodeo, and offer people the chance to punch your face at ten bucks a shot, and you can make some real money.

 

 Other places, you’ll need to wear a curly blond wig, squeeze your ass into a tight sequined dress, your feet in the biggest pair of high heels you can find. Lip-synch to Barbra Streisand singing that “Evergreen” song, and you’d better have a friend waiting to drive you to the emergency room. Take a couple Vicodins beforehand. Before you glue on those long pink Barbra Streisand fingernails; after them you can’t pick up anything smaller than a beer bottle. Take your painkillers first, and you can sing both the A and B sides ofColor Me Barbrabefore a really good shot puts you down.

 

 As a fund-raiser, our first idea was “Five Bucks to Punch a Mime.” And it worked, mostly in college towns. The aggie schools. Some towns, nobody went home without some of that Clown White smeared across their knuckles. Clown White and blood.

 

 Problem is, the novelty wears off. Renting a Gulfstream costs bucks. Just buying the gas and oil to fly from here to Europe costs about thirty grand. One way, it’s not so bad, but you never want to go into a charter place saying you only plan to fly the plane one way—talk about your red flags.

 

 No, Webber would put on that black leotard, and folks would already be salivating to hit him. He’d paint his face white, step into his invisible box, start miming away, and the cash would just flow in. Colleges mostly, but we did good business at county and state fairs, too. Even if folks took it as some kind of minstrel show, they’d still pay to knock him down. To make him bleed.

 

 For roadhouse bars, after the mime routine petered out, we tried “Fifty Bucks to Punch a Chick.” Flint had this girl who was up for it. But after, like, one shot to the face, she was saying, “No way . . .”

 

 On the floor, sitting in the peanut shells on the floor and holding her nose, this girl says, “Let me go to flight school. Let me play the pilot, instead. I still want to help.”

 

 We still had, must’ve been half the bar standing in line with their money. Divorced dads, dumped boyfriends, guys with old potty-training issues, all of them wanting to take their best shot.

 

 Flint says, “I can fix this up.” And he helps his girl to her feet. Taking her by the elbow, he leads her into the ladies’ room. Going in with her, Flint holds up his hand, fingers spread, and he says, “Give me five minutes.”

 

 Just out of the army like that, we didn’t figure how else to make that kind of money. Not legal-wise. The way Flint saw it, there’s no law yet says folks can’t pay to sock you.

 

 It’s then Flint comes out of the ladies’ room, wearing the girl’s Saturday-night wig, all her makeup used up on his big clean-shaved face. He’s unbuttoned his shirt and tied the shirttails together over his gut with paper towels stuffed in to make boobs. With whole tubes of lipstick smeared around his mouth, Flint, he says, “Let’s do this thing . . .”

 

 Folks standing in line, they’re saying fifty bucks to punch some guy is a cheat.

 

 So Flint, he says, “Make it ten bucks . . .”

 

 Folks still hang back, look around for some better way to waste their cash.

 

 It’s then Webber’s gone over by the jukebox. Dropped in a quarter. Pressed a couple buttons, and—magic. The music starts, and for the length of one exhale, all you can hear is every man in the bar letting out a long groan.

 

 The song, it’s the wailing song from the end of thatTitanicmovie. That Canadian chick.

 

 And Flint, with his blond wig and big clown mouth, he steps up on a chair, then up on a table, and starts singing along. With the whole bar watching, Flint gives it everything he’s got, sliding his hands up and down the sides of his blue jeans. His eyes closed, all you can see there is his shimmering blue eye shadow. That red smear, singing.

 

 Right on time, Webber reaches up to offer Flint a hand down. Flint takes it, ladylike, still lip-synching. You can see now, his fingernails painted candy-red. And Webber whispers to him, “I plugged in five bucks’ worth of quarters.” Webber helps Flint down to face the first man in line, and Webber says, “This song’s the only thing they’re going to hear all night.”

 

 From Webber’s five bucks, they made almost six hundred that night. Not a fist left that bar not beat deep, tattooed blue and red and eyeliner-green with the makeup from Flint’s face. Some guys, they’d hit him until that hand got tired, then get back in line to use their other.

 

 That wailingTitanicsong, it almost fucking killed Flint. That and the guys wearing big honking finger rings.

 

 After that, we had a rule about no rings. That, and we’d check to see you weren’t palming a roll of dimes or a lead fishing weight to make your fist do more damage.

 

 Of all the folks, the women are the worst. Some of them ain’t happy ’less they see teeth fly out the other side of your mouth.

 

 Women, the drunker they get, the more they love, love, love to slug a drag queen. Knowing it’s a man. Especially if he’s dressed and looking better than they are. Slapping was fine, too, but no scratching.

 

 Right quick, that market opened up. Webber and Flint, they started skipping dinner. Drinking lite beer. Any new town, you’d catch one of them standing sideways to a mirror, looking at his stomach, his shoulders pulled back and his butt stuck out.

 

 Every town, you’d swear they each had another damn suitcase. This suitcase for dressy dresses, evening dresses. Then garment bags so’s they wouldn’t wrinkle as much. Bags for shoes and wig boxes. A big new makeup case for each of them.