Hank by Michael Panasuk

It says access denied.  I suspect Hank would appreciate that, but the player will come up , click the play arrow and adjust volume–sit back and enjoy.

–Click on the word Hank for the audio recording

HANK

Text version below…

If Hank Williams came to Nashville today?
Would a major label sign him?

“Howdy, my name‘s Hank Williams.
I’m a singer and I write a song or two now and then.
I‘m looking for a place to record a few of my tunes,
Can ya hep me?”

The receptionist gave ole Hank a blonde stare,
And blurted out, “Mister, Do I look like I can help you?”
Before Hank had a chance to ponder the profundity
Of MS Pushbutton’s witty repartee, line seven
Rang with a prophetic, pathetic, electronic timbre
That jingle jangled the heart strings of both their souls,
And MS Pushbutton commenced to be moved by the impotent
impetus, due to the fact she had to keep her job long enough
To pay off her new, fire engine red Mustang convertible.

So she deftly maneuvered her right hand into position
And gracefully swooped down to snatch up the phone:
“MGM Records, Susan Speaking, How can I help you?”
She announced, sounding like the computer
She played Cyberspank on at home.

Hank made that little devilish laugh of his
And thought to himself, “How’s it she can hep
Somebody on the phone, but she can’t hep
Somebody standing right in front of her?”

Simultaneously, Hank overheard MS Pushbutton say:
“I‘m sorry Mr. Shallowmann, he‘s not in his office,
I don’t care if you need a new Recording Artist
Today, tomorrow or ten thousand years from now!
Can I put you on hold?”

NOW HANK HAD NO INTENTION OF LETTING THIS GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY
PASS HIM BY LIKE SO MANY TRUCKS ON A LONESOME HIGHWAY,
SO HE SPOKE UP, “EXCUSE ME MISSY, DID I HEAR YOU TO SAY
SOMEBODY’S IN NEED OF A RECORDING ARTIST?  CAUSE IFIN YOU DID,
I’D TAKE IT MIGHT RIGHT KINDLY IF ME, HANK WILLIAMS COULD,
IF THE GOOD LORD’S WILLIN’ AND THE CREEKS DON’T RISE,
APPLY FOR THAT THERE POSITION RITCHE HERE AND NOW.”

WHEN HE DID THAT LITTLE DEVILISH LAUGH THING AGAIN,
MS PUSHBUTTONS WAS TAKEN ABACK YET ONE MORE TIME
IN HER PERSONAL QUEST TO PROVE TO THE WORLD
SHE WAS THE NEXT PATSY-LORRETA-REBA-SHANIA-WHATEVER,
DESPITE HER INABILITY TO PERFORM EVEN THE MOST
INSIGNIFICANT TASK ANY BETTER THAN AN EMOTIONALLY
CHALLENGED SUB-CRUSTACEAN SYMBIOTIC LIFE FORM.

BUT AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, AND FATE HAS IT OFTEN,
HANK’S HEARTFELT PLEA FOR ARTISTIC EMPLOYMENT
WAS MISTAKEN AS A DOLLAR SIGN FROM GOD;
AND THE MYSTICAL MUSICAL MOGUL, MR. SHALLOWMANN,
LISTENING FROM HIS LOFTY PERCH,
HIGH ABOVE THE CACOPHONY PAVED PATHS OF MUSIC ROW,
SCREAMED, “SUZIE, I DON’T CARE IF YOU ARE A BITCH!
SEND THAT GUY OVER HERE, PRONTO TONTO,
MAKE IT SNAPPY SLAPPY, I’M IN A HURRY MURRAY,
SO GET IT DONE, HUN; WHILE THE GETTIN’S GOOD:
YOU GOT IT? GOOD! CHOW MAMASITA!”

AND HE HUNG UP THE PHONE WITH A COSMIC THUD
THAT STUCK IN MS PUSHBUTTON’S EAR LIKE A WEEVIL.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS?”  SHE QUERIED HANK
WITH ALL THE ENTHUSIASM OF A ONE LEGGED TABLE DANCER.
“IT’S HANK WILLIAMS, MA’AM; HAPPY TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE,”

AND HE WAS, EVEN IF SHE DIDN’T GIVE A DAMN:
HANK WAS A MAN OF THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE;
A GENUINE PRE-RAMBLE TO THE VERY CONSTITUTION OF THESE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OR ANYWHERE ELSE THE ORIGINAL
LOVESICK BLUES BOY HAPPENED TO BE SINGING, JAWING, FISHING,
DRINKING, THINKING OR JUST PLAIN BEING THE ONE AND ONLY
ONE OF HIS KIND TO EVER WALK THE FACE OF THE EARTH-
HANKASAUROUS BEAUCEPHOUS, PRIMEVAL, REAL PEOPLE
MAKING REAL MUSIC FOR REAL FOLK.  THAT’S THE HEART AND SOUL
OF COUNTRY MUSIC:  THE REAL DEAL, THE SODIUM OF THE PLANET:
TRUE ESSENCE OF THE ART, RELIGION, PHILOSOPHY, SOCIAL GRACES,
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY, TRANSCENDENT, TRANSPARENT, TRANSPORT,
ABOVE AND BEYOND TECHNOLOGY, ZIET GIEST, BON VIVANT,
BE HAPPY, DON’T WORRY, AIN’T NOTHIN’ GONNA BE ALRIGHT NO HOW.

SO THERE YOU HAVE IT, THIS MAGNIFICENT SITUATION
ORCHESTRATED BY AN OMNIPOTENT CONDUCTOR:
AND AS THE TWANGY STEEL GUITAR KICKED OFF A SONG
IN THE KEY OF EXIGENCY, HANK DEMONSTRATED
HIS MOST HEART RENDERING APPRECIATION
FOR MS PUSHBUTTON’S VAINGLORIOUS ATTEMPT
TO KEEP THE SQUEAKY WHEELS OF MUSIC ROW ROLLING
WITHOUT ROCKING THE BIG BASS BOAT
FLOATING ON THE NOTORIOUS LAKE OF LIFE.

“LISTEN MR. WILLIAMS, YOU NEED TO GET OVER TO ACME RECORDS
ASAP.  MR. SHALLOWMANN IS WAITING FOR YOU, FOR THE MOMENT,
UNTIL ANOTHER INSTANT OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS ON HIS POLISHED
MAHOGANY DOOR, AND YOU BECOME YET ANOTHER DISPOSABLE PRODUCT,
IN A LONG LINE OF RAPIDLY VANISHING IMPULSIVE MARKETING SCHEMES,
SKILLFULLY DESIGNED TO INCREASE THE QUARTERLY SALES FIGURES
OF CD UNITS,” POOR MS PUSHBUTTON REGURGITATED
WITH ALL THE EXPLETIVE EXPERTISE OF A SENIOR CPA.

HANK TRIED TO SWALLOW THAT HUMUNGOUS MOUTHFUL
OF MASHED MANURE, BUT QUICKLY REALIZED THAT NOT EVEN
THE WORLD’S MOST NOTED PROCTOLOGIST HAD A CHANCE IN HELL
OF DECIPHERING THE HORRENDOUS HIEROGLYPHICS THAT MODERN DAY
MUSICATA CLOAKS ITSELF IN, IN ORDER TO MAKE IT PERFECTLY CLEAR
THAT, ‘MONEY MAKES THE SWEETEST MELODY ON EARTH!’

WHEN TALL LANKY HANK SAUNTERED INTO ACME RECORDS,
HE WAS ANXIOUSLY GREETED BY SHALLOWMANN’S ASSISTANT,
JENNY UPPITY (HER REAL NAME WAS NORMA JEAN COOK).
SHE HAD THE LOOKS OF TWENTY WITH THE SAVVY OF SIXTEEN,
AND SHE PROVED IT BEYOND THE PARTIALLY BLOCKED INCANDESCENCE
OF INDECISION BY UTTERING THE FOLLOWING PLATITUDE:
“I HOPE YOU SING BETTER THAN YOU LOOK.”

HANK SMILED WIDE WITHOUT AN IOTA OF ANIMOSITY IN MIND,
LOOKED JENNY SQUARE IN THE EYE AND SAID:
“HONEY, THE SUN IS 93 MILLION MILES AWAY
AND YOU STILL LET IT BE A STAR.
HOWSE ABOUT GIVIN’ ME A CHANCE TO SHINE
BEFORE YOU GO CALLIN’ ME OTHERWISE?”

JENNY COULD ONLY REPLY, “FOLLOW ME, HANK.”

THEY WALKED DOWN THE HALLOWED HALLS
THAT LED TO THE PULSING HEART BEAT
OF THE THRIVING BUSINESS CALLED COUNTRY MUSIC:
THE CLINK AND CLANK OF VIBRATING TYPEWRITERS,
THE INSTANT GRATIFICATION OF FAX MACHINES AND PHONES,
THE CELESTIAL ELECTRONIC THINKING OF COMPUTERS:
COMMUNICATION EVERYWHERE AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK-
THE HALLUCINATION OF THE OASIS, SLEEK SHEIKS DIRECTING
THEIR HAREM INSIDE SATIN TENTS, PALM TREES DROPPING DOWN
COCONUTS ON PARCHED PEOPLE, SOMEONE SAID:
‘I’LL DO LUNCH, IF YOU’LL DO ME,’
AND THEIR PEOPLE CALLED THEIR PEOPLE AND THAT LED TO WORDS;
AND THOSE WORDS LED TO EVEN MORE WORDS.
NOW EVERYONE WAS TALKING, BUT NO ONE WAS LISTENING,
AND THE DEAFENING SILENCE FELL LIKE CASH REGISTERS
ON THE HUMDRUM EARDRUMS OF THE BUMBLING CHOSEN FEW,
WHO SELECT THE NEXT BIG HIT YOU MAY CHOOSE TO ENDURE.

THE GOLD PLATED SIGN ON THE POLISHED MAHOGANY DOOR READ:
RICHARD SHALLOWMANN, VICE PRESIDENT, ARTIST DEVELOPMENT.
JENNY KNOCKED THREE TIMES.  SHE ENTERED.  HANK FOLLOWED
AND HISTORY REWROTE ITSELF BEGINNING WITH THE COMPLAINT:
“JENNY, I TOLD YOU, NEVER BRING THE JANITOR IN HERE
WHILE I’M WORKING!”
“SORRY RICHIE.  BUT THIS IS HANK WILLIAMS.
HE’S HERE TO SEE YOU ABOUT A RECORD DEAL, AT YOUR REQUEST.
HANK WILLIAMS, THIS IS RICHARD SHALLOWMANN.
I’LL LEAVE YOU TWO ALONE.
CALL ME IF YOU NEED ANYTHING.”
AND SHE VANISHED LIKE A WATER-STAIN.

“I’M RICHARD SHALLOWMANN, VP OF A&R AT ACME RECORDS.
I CAN SHAKE ‘EM, MAKE ‘EM AND BREAK ‘EM BEFORE YOU CAN SAY,
MY ACHY BREAKY BUTT!  THEY CALL ME, GOD’S SEQUEL,
BECAUSE I’M STILL MAKING STARS.  HE QUIT AFTER SIX DAYS.
ANYWAY, SIT DOWN, TAKE A LOAD OFF YOUR MIND, HANK.
LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I CAN DO FOR YOU!”

HANK WANTED TO MAKE THAT LITTLE DEVILISH LAUGH OF HIS,
THOUGHT BETTER OF IT AND IN HIS OWN BEST INTEREST,
FOLLOWED THE MISGUIDED DIRECTIONS OF RICHARD THE LYING HEARTLESS,
PULLED UP A SOFT, LEATHER BACK CHAIR AND LENT OUT HIS BEST EAR.

“HANK”, SHALLOWMANN CONTINUED, “LET’S GET DOWN TO BEES WAX.
THE HAT WORKS.  WE’RE ALWAYS IN THE MARKET FOR A HAT ACT.
WE CAN GRAB A SIGNIFICANT MARKET SHARE FROM THAT ANGLE.
MAYBE WE’LL GO WITH BLACK INSTEAD OF WHITE.
WE’LL DO THE MARKET RESEARCH LATER.
WE’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR LOOK!
YOU’RE TALL, THAT’S GOOD,  A LITTLE TOO ANEMIC,
MAYBE TOO MATURE, THEY PREFER SWEET SIXTEEN
WITH A SIX O’CLOCK SHADOW: ARE YOU GETTING THIS HANK?
NO NEED TO RESPOND. IT’S ALL PRELIM.
NEW ARTIST, OLD HAT, SO TO SPEAK.
YOU SEE HANK, WE KNOW OUR MERCHANDISE,
THAT’S YOU, AND WE KNOW OUR MARKET,
AND ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW IS THAT THE LESS YOU KNOW,
THE EASIER IT IS TO SELL YOUR SOUL,
AND THAT’S ALL YOU’VE GOT TO DO,
IF YOU WANT TO GET TO THE VERY TOP.

SO WE NEED TO WORK ON YOUR LOOK,
GET THAT VOGUE FACADE THING HAPPENING.
WE’RE MERCHANDISING TO TEENAGE GIRLS.
THEY’RE STILL BUYING DOLLS, ALBEIT, LIVING DOLLS;
BUT IF THAT’S WHAT IT TAKES TO SELL MILLIONS
OF THOSE LITTLE ROUND PIECES OF PLASTIC,
THEN BY THE POWERS INVESTED IN ME BY THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS,
BY GOD, THAT’S WHAT I’LL DO.”

HANK WASN’T QUITE SURE HOW TO RESPOND TO THAT TYPHOONISH
RUBBISH.  HE DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE WHAT IT HAD TO DO WITH MUSIC
OR A BUNCH OF GUYS JAMMIN’ ON A FRIEND’S FRONT PORCH,
SIPPIN’ BEER,EATING BARBEQUE, AND PICKIN’ SONGS THAT RISE UP
FROM THE HEART AND RUN DOWN THROUGH THE SOUL
LIKE ANGEL BREATH, AND SOOTHE THE MIND LIKE RELIGION
AND LOVE, AND BRING THE WORLD CLOSER LIKE PEACE AND WAR.

HANK KNEW HOW TO EXPRESS HIMSELF SIMPLE AND PURE,
TRUE TO THE ROOTS OF THE GREATEST SOURCE OF ALL,
THAT PLACE WHERE GRACE AND BEAUTY GROWS
AND SOMETIMES BECOMES WHAT WE DREAM ABOUT
BEFORE THE LIGHT SWALLOWS UP EVERYTHING
AND MAKES US PART OF WHAT WILL ALWAYS BE.

SO HANK SPOKE UP IN THE ONLY WAY HE KNEW HOW,
QUICK AND TO A FINE POINT:

“WELL, MR. SHALLOWMANN, I CAN ASSURE YOU,
I LIKE TO LOOK MY VERY BEST!
I WEAR FANCY NUDIE WESTERN SUITS LIKE TEX RITTER
AND GENE AUTRY; AND I TREAT MY FEET TO THE FINEST
LEATHERWEAR THE DIXON BOOT COMPANY HAS TO OFFER;
AND I TOP IT OFF WITH A 5X BEAVER FELT RESISTOL,
AND I AIN’T NEVER HAD NOTHIN’ BUT COMPLIMENTS ABOUT MY LOOK!”

BEFORE SHALLOWMANN COULD INTERJECT HIS PROFESSIONAL PREJUDICE,
HANK EXPRESSED HIS WITHOUT HESITATION.

“LET ME PLAY YOU A LITTLE SONG I WROTE AWHILE BACK.
I THINK YOU MIGHT LIKE IT.  IT GOES A BIT LIKE THIS.”
HANK STRUCK AN OPEN ‘C’ CHORD AND SANG:

HEY, GOOD LOOKIN’, WHATCHA GOT COOKIN’…

BUT BEFORE HE COULD FINISH THE FIRST LINE,
THE VP OF A&R AT ACME RECORDS WAS FRANTICALLY WAVING
HIS HANDS IN FRONT OF HANK’S ASTONISHED FACE AND ASKED:
‘HANK, ARE YOU GAY?’

HANK STARTED TO SAY, ‘I’M A MIGHT RIGHT HAPPY.’
BUT SHALLOWMANN CUT HIM OFF
AND RE-TRACKED HIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT:

“IT’S OK IF YOU ARE.  WE’VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR
A VIABLE MEANS OF GARNERING A MARKET SHARE
FROM THAT PARTICULAR DEMOGRAPHIC GROUP;
AND YOU COULD BE THE TICKET, SWEETHEART.
ON THE OTHER HAND, IF YOU’RE NOT GAY,
YOU BETTER LOSE THAT OBSOLETE IDEA
THAT WOMAN DO THE COOKING.
IT’S POLITICALLY INCORRECT TO ASSUME OR IMPLY
THAT THE FAIRER SEX BELONGS IN THE KITCHEN
PERFORMING DEGRADING DOMESTIC CHORES.
IF YOU ASK ME, AND I’LL DENY IT IF YOU DO,
WOMEN WERE PUT ON EARTH TO PERFORM THE THREE C’S:
COOKING, CLEANING AND COPULATION.
BUT YOU DIDN’T HEAR THAT FROM ME,
AND I’VE GOT A GOOD LAWYER IF YOU INSIST ON TRYING
TO PROVE YOU THOUGHT YOU HEARD ME MAKE
AN ANTI-FEMINIST, CHAUVINISTIC OINKER OF A REMARK.

ANYWAY HANK, IT’S ALL ABOUT IMAGE.
WHETHER YOU’RE SELLING MUSIC OR MAYONNAISE.
THE END USER PURCHASES AN ESCAPE FROM REALITY.
IT’S OUR JOB TO PACKAGE THE PRODUCT IN A WAY
THAT ACCOMPLISHES JUST THAT.”

“WELL,” HANK SAID, “IT’S JUST A SONG!
I AIN’T TRYIN’ TO TELL NOBODY TO DO NOTHIN’.”

“YOU COULDN’T BE ANYMORE WRONG IF YOU TRIED TWICE AS HARD!”
SHALLOWMANN INSTANTLY RETORTED.

“AS A COUNTRY MUSIC SUPERSTAR, YOU ARE A ROLE MODEL
TO MILLIONS OF ADORING, GULLIBLE, MONEY- FANS.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE TO THEM, AND ACCOUNTABLE TO US.
YOU HAVE TO BE WHAT THEY EXPECT YOU TO BE,
AND EXACTLY WHAT WE DEMAND YOU TO BE!
NOTHING LESS IS ACCEPTABLE.”

HANK MAINTAINED HIS COOL SOUTHERN OPTIMISM.
WITHOUT MISSING A BEAT HE SAID, “ALRIGHT,
MAYBE YOU DIDN’T LIKE THAT ONE,
BUT HOW ABOUT THIS?”  AND HE SANG:
I JUST TOLD MAMA GOODBYE,
MOTHER’S DAY HAS TURNED TO NIGHT…

BUT ONCE AGAIN, BEFORE HE STARTED THE NEXT LINE,
SHALLOWMANN SYMBOLICALLY BANGED THE GONG:

“NO! NO! NO! THAT JUST WON’T DO!
DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING MORE POSITIVE AND UPBEAT?
NOBODY WANTS TO BE STUCK IN RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC
AT 7 AM LISTENING TO A COMPLETE DOWNER ABOUT
SOMEBODY’S MOTHER DYING.  GIVE ME SOMETHING
ABOUT A TRUCK, SOMETHING YOU CAN LINE DANCE TO.
BE HAPPY, BE SAPPY, BE CRAPPY FOR ALL I CARE;
BUT DON’T MAKE ME THINK ABOUT DEATH
BEFORE I’VE HAD MY SECOND CUP OF COFFEE!”

NOW HANK WAS A TAD BEFUDDLED BUT NOT DISCOURAGED;
HE’D DEALT WITH DOMINEERING TYPES ALL HIS LONELY LIFE.
SO HE DID WHAT HE DID BEST AND BROKE INTO ANOTHER TUNE:

MY BUCKET’S GOT A HOLE IN IT
MY BUCKET’S GOT A HOLE IN IT
MY BUCKET’S GOT A HOLE IN IT
AND I CAIN’T BUY NO BEER

ONCE AGAIN, HANK SUFFERED THE STING OF SONGUS INTERRUPTUS.
SUDDENLY, SHALLOWMANN LEAPED OVER HIS TEAK DESK
AND LANDED SMACK DAB IN FRONT OF THE COUNTRY CROONER,
SIMULTANEOUSLY AND ADROITLY APPLYING HIS RIGHT HAND
ACROSS HANK’S PARTIALLY AGAPE SATCHMO LIKE DUCT TAPE
ON A KIDNAPPED SPY, AND BEGAN PONTIFICATING TO HIM FROM THE PULPIT
OF HIS BLESSED KINGDOM LIKE A PREACHER IN FRONT OF A TV CAMERA.

“FIRST OF ALL, UNLESS YOU’RE ANHEISER BUSCH, YOU CAN’T
SING SONGS THAT GLORIFY THE USE OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES!”

HANK SHEEPISHLY MENTIONED THAT HE COULD CHANGE IT TO ‘MILK’.
AND SHALLOWMANN MOMENTARILY CONSIDERED THE POSSIBILITY
OF A THIRTY SECOND COMMERCIAL SPOT FOR THE
NATIONAL DAIRY ASSOCIATION, BUT DISMISSED THE IDEA
BASED ON A NEGATIVE INVESTMENT RETURN ANALYSIS
HE INSTANTANEOUSLY PERFORMED IN HIS CALCULATOR
FORTIFIED HEAD; AND HE CONTINUED HIS TIRADE:

“SECONDLY, NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR A SONG ABOUT A BUCKET!
YOU MAY AS WELL WRITE ONE ABOUT A WOODEN INDIAN!
GIVE ME ANOTHER ‘STRAWBERRY WINE’.
NOW THERE’S A GREAT SONG!

YA KNOW HANK, MAYBE YOU’RE TOO COUNTRY?”

HANK SCRATCHED HIS HEAD BEFORE HE GENTLY REMOVED
SHALLOWMANN’S SWEATY HAND FROM HIS QUIVERING MOUTH.

“YOU MIGHT BE RIGHT ABOUT THE WOODEN INDIAN,” HANK SAID,
“BUT I FAIL TO SEE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MY BEER
AND YOUR WINE, EXCEPTIN’ THE BOTTLES THEY COME IN.”

“IT’S MUCH MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT,” SHALLOWMANN
NERVOUSLY EXPLAINED, HIS NOSE SWELLING EVER SO SLIGHTLY.

“HANK, YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND, THIS IS NO LONGER
THE MUSIC BUSINESS; IT’S THE BUSINESS OF MUSIC!
WE HAVE BIG RENTS TO PAY, STOCKHOLDERS TO ANSWER TO,
AND PUBLIC OPINION THAT KEEPS US FROM DOING
WHAT WE’D REALLY LIKE TO DO TO OUR CUSTOMERS!

SO WHEN A YOUNG GREENHORN, TINHORN, HIGH FALLOOTIN’
HILLBILLY, REDNECK, COWBOY, BADBOY, SNOT NOSE
SON OF A BITCH COMES KNOCKIN’ ON OUR POLISHED
MAHOGANY DOOR, HE’D BETTER GET ONE THING STRAIGHT
RIGHT FROM THE GET GO: IF YOU WANT TO SELL YOU SOUL
IN THE BIG SHOW, YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH US!

YOU DON’T HAVE TO LOVE IT OR EVEN LIKE IT;
YOU ONLY HAVE TO AGREE TO AGREE.
IF YOU WANT TO RESIST, GET OUT!
IF YOU WANT TO COMPLAIN,
DO IT ON YOUR OWN TIME IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HELL.
OTHERWISE, GET USE TO IT!

SO HANK, ARE YOU IN OR OUT?”

“LET ME CHEW ON IT AWHILE,” HANK SAID,
“I’M DRIVING TO CANTON IN THE MORNING,
WHEN I GET BACK, IF THE GOOD LORD’S WILLIN’
AND THE CREEKS DON’T RISE TWIXT OUR HOUSE
AND YOUR OFFICE HERE, I’LL COME BACK AND MAYBE
WE CAN MAKE A DEAL THAT SUITS US BOTH JUST FINE.”

HANK’S WORDS MERGED WITH THE HUM OF THE AIR CONDITIONER
AND THE CONSTANT BUZZ OF THE FLORESCENT LIGHTS
AND THE WHIRL OF WATER OVERFLOWING
AND THE TWANG OF A STEEL GUITAR…

(C) 2005 MB Panasuk