February Sucks Less in Texas

There is zero resemblance between the fictitious characters herein and those George Anderson so carefully crafted in his much-imitated classic, and only one has the same name. Assume this happened after ol' Marc got traded, maybe, and understand that the Texans herein may lack some of the qualities of introspection and thoughtful consideration the original characters possessed. It's a lark, folks, so relax and take it in that vein.

*

The four couples had just been seated at their reserved booth and were kicked back enjoying their first drinks of the night. It was a curiously comprised group, age-wise, with two couples who appeared to be in their early thirties, one that looked mid-twenties, and an older couple that appeared 'ageless', in the sense that they could be thirty-something or fifty-something. They were laughing and talking like old friends, or maybe relations, but that there was little resemblance among them dispelled the 'relations' idea.

The men were wearing jeans, fancy pearl snap western shirts with embroidered yokes, boots, and Stetsons. The women also wore denim and boots, but their denim was dresses, and there were significant differences between those of the twenty-something brunette, the raven-haired thirty-somethings, and the ageless blonde. The ageless beauty's dress was modestly short and open at the neck, and it followed her curvy body without being tight; she wore black cowboy boots. She wore a pearl necklace and earrings with her denim.

The taller thirty-something with long, raven-black hair wore a body-hugging mini-dress with a big zipper down the front. That big golden zipper, and the multiple of golden necklaces hanging over it, seemed to beckon you to unzip the zipper. Her cowboy boots were bright blue and called attention to her long, slender legs.

The shorter one with bigger boobs was displaying them immodestly, but her skirt length was more modest. The silver conch and turquoise belt called attention to her small waist; she wore cowboy boots with turquoise inlaid on rust-colored leather, and her ebony hair fell in tangled curls around her beautiful oval face.

Still, the twenty-something was the shiniest. Her short dress had red snaps down the front with red roses embroidered in places that accentuated her smallish but proud, high boobs. She wore a red belt cinched around her tiny waist, and the 'skater skirt' fell over her lush behind before ending at mid-thigh. Her cowboy boots were red with a high heel, her full lips were painted red, her posture was genteel, and she was strikingly eye-catching.

Their entry a few minutes earlier, following a previous engagement, had momentarily stilled the crowd and turned a lot of heads, including those of five large men seated at a table catty-corner near the dance floor. Those men had rather blatantly repositioned themselves to watch them be seated, and in so doing had garnered the attention of the eight people at the table and two men watching from the shadows.

The second round was bought and drunk and a third ordered before anyone ventured to the dance floor, and then they went as a group. The band played mostly country with some southern rock, and the group of eight stayed on the floor for more than twenty minutes, trading partners after each song. They linked arms for a line dance, the men laughing at their own clumsiness but appreciating the grace, coordination, and rhythm of the women.

The older gentleman walked over to the band, where he was greeted with awe and respect, and they quickly honored his request for the old Bob Wills classic, 'Stay a Little Longer'.

There was lots of twirling, spinning, and dipping as the women showed off and the men acted as their foils for the old swing song. Not many joined them; this old-fashioned ways of dancing were lost on the more upscale crowed.

The big guys at the table by the dance floor got a closer look at the women they coveted, and learned that the bikini panties of the brunette matched the red buttons on her dress and pouty lips. Lavalliere growled, "That bitch is mine! I'm gonna hang those red panties on the mirror of my Porsche for a month! Best air freshener available!"

When the western swing experience ended, the men called for a break and a drink; the women linked arms with their original partners and proceeded back to the table where the third round was being solicitously placed.

The arrogant smirks of the five men were noted, but ignored, as the group passed by their table. This wasn't the first time their women had drawn attention; in fact, fighting every time they drew attention and sexual comment would be a full-time job for their men. They were hot; they knew it, their men knew it, and the ladies would be disappointed if no one else noticed.

They reseated themselves, with the youngest couple at the end of the booth, facing the leering men. The older couple was beside them, with the other two couples seated around the end and on the other side.

"Norma, you always look SO put together!" effused the shiny brunette. "Whether you are on stage, with your family, or dancing, you ALWAYS exude the grace and class to which we all aspire!" "Thank you, Chrissy. For a country girl like me that is high praise indeed, coming from you!"

"She's right, Norma! You always look 'put together', as Chrissy called it, when you are at a rodeo or roping or when you are decked out in the latest fashions at an awards presentation!"

"You girls are just too sweet! I have about 15 years on you and Melanie, and 25 on Chrissy, so when you girls compliment me like this I'm simply thrilled! Anyway, I'd say we all look good tonight, Sammy! Well, at least all the women do!" She wrinkled her nose and complained, "The men wore their work clothes to a dance!"

They all laughed, and then the men agreed that the women outshone them by far and reminded they had not been allowed time to clean up and change. Compliments flew and animated conversations broke out around the table after that, many about their successes at the previous engagement.

The businessmen in the booth beside them left, but were quickly replaced by two couples. While they were being seated, one of the women chirped, "Oh my god! That is Marc Lavalliere sitting right over there with some of his teammates!" One of the men said, "I heard this was one of his happy hunting grounds! What will you do if he comes over here and wants to take you home with him, Babe?"

"I don't know about getting 'taken home', Sweetie, but if that big, good looking, rich man asks me to dance, I'm gonna be dancing!" "If you dance with him, he's gonna entice you to go home with him -- what then? Are you going to leave me?" "Oh, Sweetie, he won't, but if he does, just remember I love you and I'll be your wife again after her gets through with me! I mean, it's Marc Lavalliere!" "I know, but I just want to be sure you will come back after your adventure."

"Oh my god, Val! He's walking this way! You may get your chance!" chimed the other woman. They turned expectantly, but he stopped at the booth beside them and asked the shiny brunette, "May I have the honor of this dance, Beautiful Lady?"

It grew silent for a long moment. They all looked up at him, and her male companion asked with a frown, "Where are you from, Dude? It sure as hell ain't Texas!"

The big guy looked irritated by the question, but answered, "I live here in Houston, why?" "You may live in Houston, but you aren't a Texan. If you were, you would ask me, her husband, if you could dance with Chrissie, not walk up here like you are all entitled and ask her directly."

Chrissie had let go of her husband's hand, and whispered, "It's all right. I'll dance once, and we can avoid the confrontation I know you are about to start. No need for an ambulance run or more nights in jail!" He shook his head, said "Negatory!", and directed his attention back to the intruder.

"You obviously think you're something special - who are you, anyway?" "I'm Marc Lavalliere, the tight end for the local pro football team. Who are you?" he replied belligerently.

"Name's Lane," he replied, and then turned to the men across from him. "Is there another pro team in Texas besides the Cowboys? My dad once mentioned one called the Oilers that existed years ago. He said 'the idiot owner moved the Oilers to Tennessee!' but that was all."

"Oh, yeah, they have a team here, and he is the tight end. Well, some of the time. You might remember me mentioning him during fantasy football."

"Oh, hell, is that him, Charlie? I remember that! Of course! He's the pussy you drafted that kept missing games with a sore pinky, ingrown toenail, and such, right? I remember you cussing him all season!"

"You calling me a pussy?" the big man asked threateningly. "Well, let's see. How many games did you miss with the pinky, how many did you miss with the big toe, and how many did you actually play? If I remember correctly, you missed more than you played, which might be the very definition of a pussy."

Lavalliere turned red and took a step toward Lane, only to see Charlie rise from the booth behind him and warn, "Better think before you act, asshat. Lane isn't someone to trifle with, and we've got his back!" Lavalliere turned toward Charlie, only to find a much bigger man than himself staring down at him.

He wasn't used to that; he took a step away and looked at his buddies back at the table. They got up, walked quickly over, and stood behind him.

"Honey, weren't those blinds you showed me for our new house Lavalier, or something like that? I remember you showing them to me and I told you they looked cheap." Turning his attention back, he asked, "Do you make cheap blinds too?"

Feeling more confident with his buddies flanking him, Lavalliere retorted, "I'm a millionaire pro football star, asshole! I make more in a season than you make in a decade!"

"You might be right about that, Mr. Football Star, because it seems you get paid whether you work or sit on the sidelines with a Band-Aid on your pinky!

We are working men; we have to show up every week and beat the competition to get paid. You can stand there on the sideline in street clothes because you have an ingrown toenail and still get paid."

"My finger was BROKEN, wiseass, and I had turf toe!" Lavalliere retorted defensively.

"Bud, how many rodeos did you miss last year when you broke that finger on your riding hand?" "Well, let me count: let's see - exactly zero! Bull riders do their job with broken hands and arms, much less fingers! A rider who skipped rodeos because of a broken finger would be laughed off the circuit!"

"How about you, Charlie? Did you stop bull dogging and heeling when you had the toe broke by the steer?" "Are you kidding, Lane? If I don't work, my kids don't get fed and my wife don't get to go shopping!

How about you, Lane? Did you quit calf roping and heading when you tore up that knee? Seems like you put on a big brace and kept on keepin' on until after July 4th. Then you had the surgery and were back on top of the horse a few months later for the finals in Las Vegas."

"That's just what I did Charlie! You know, it's just like tonight when we had another sold-out crowd to entertain at the 'world's biggest rodeo'. By the way, La-va-liar, did you know rodeo has a lot more fans in the stands than pro football? And it is the most dangerous -- more injuries and more deaths by far than any other sport.

Anyway, sure, my knee hurt, but I don't stand on the sidelines when people pay a bunch of money to watch me rope and ride; I go perform! I do my job! That's a part of being a man. Pussies, on the other hand, use every excuse to sit and watch, but they are first in line for their paychecks."

"Well, honey," Chrissie interjected, "to be fair, quite of the few people who paid for a ticket came to watch the singer and his band, not just you, Charlie, and Bud. He's pretty big, ya know?"

"Well, there ya go, Darlin', putting me in my place again!"

After they all finished laughing, Lane asked, "What do you think, Hor-hay? Is ol' Lev-a-liar here a stud football player, or just another lazy pussy?" Lane asked of the older man. "All I can say is, in my line of work having a broken pinky don't earn you a paid spot on the bench. Maybe the thumb, pointer, and middle, but the pinky? Come on!"

Growing more irritated by the minute from the lack of respect he was getting, Lavalliere turned his attention back to the shiny brunette beside Lane. He loudly and forcefully asked, "Are you ready to dance with me, Gorgeous? Don't worry about this little man here; I can take care of him, and my boys can take care of anything the rest throw our way. I can tell you want to, so just push him out of the way and let's get the party started! I'll return you to him in a few days, if you still want to go."

Chrissie stared at him for a long time, and then asked, "Who do you think you are? Why would I want to dance with some obnoxious asshole who hits on married women because he can't get one of his own? This is the All-Around World Champion right here, and that doesn't just refer to his rodeo awards!" Chrissie leaned over and grabbed Lane's cock to make her point clearer, and answered, "So, no, you obnoxious asshole, I won't dance with you, and I damn sure won't go home with you!"

"Okay, bitch! You don't know what you're missing, but go on home with your little man...OWWWW!" Without getting up, Lane had grabbed Lavalliere's left pinky, bent it back until it snapped, and stomped his 'turf toe', which was encased in his expensive soft leather shoes, with his boot heel.

With Lavalliere hopping around whining and crying, his seconds moved to the fore. Before the cowboys could get out of the booth, two men in dark suits appeared at the table with their hands inside their jackets. One wagged the forefinger of his left hand in front of the four football players and ordered, "You boys are threatening some very important people here; you need to take your sissy friend there and head back to your table...nah, your time here is up - get the fuck out! Sorry ladies -- I'm afraid they're kind of dense so I had to speak their language."

After briefly assessing the situation, two of them grabbed Lavalliere by the arm to support him, and they took one more hateful look at the table of men and women laughing at them before heading for the door.

"Come on, Hor-hay: give 'em your greatest line!"

In a surprisingly shrill voice, the older gentleman ordered, "Go on! Get your ass out of here! You heard me! Get your ass out of here!"