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July 12, 2007

Jim: All Roads Lead To The Gator

An hour from Lafayette sat a moldy plank building that called itself the Gator Saloon. Outside, a myriad of insects hummed mournfully in the sweltering, thick air.

A stereotype of crusty black leather and tattoos, Killer Maddigan bulled into the saloon, its interior dark after the midday sun, and settled onto a bar stool. “Tequila,” he told the girl tending the place.

The bar’s only other patron, a shriveled oldster, quietly slurred, “Sho, you come here off ten?”

Maddigan stared, downed his shot, and left without a word.

“Guess he came here off Highway 49, then,” the old man muttered.

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