Not going to waste your time. My name is Brad Wesley, I run this town, and I am looking for some muscle. I've got my eye on a half dozen thicked up toughs who know their way around three feet of Kentucky pine. Men who think breaking glass is a lullaby and don't mind hitting a waitress in a bar fight. I need thugs, do you understand?
There is a road house in Jasper called the Double Deuce. I don't much care for it and the flagrant way their cooler, this Dalton character, has been treating some of my boys. It's time to teach him a lesson about this town, and I am looking for six to ten men to help me send that message.
I'm not picky. I'll take all types.
Do you have a mustache? Keep it. I like it. Don't have one? Grow one. Or not. It's your business. That's the sort of boss I am. Bring your own style. Wear what you like is the whole of the dress code. You want to wear a vest with no shirt underneath it? Go wild, my friend. You got some children's t-shirts you want to stretch over those buff muscles? Let's see 'em. If you want to wear some filthy blue jeans and nothing else that is fine be me so long as you have a wicked roundhouse kick. Put a shark's tooth necklace on. Strap a big bowie knife to your belt. Tie strings around your biceps like Hulk Hogan.
If you look like the sort of long haul trucker who would stumble out of his cab after pulling 24 straight on the road and take a bottle to the face without missing a beat, then you are the sort of man I am looking for. The pay won't be good. There will be lots of standing around at my ranch and watching me get on and off of helicopters. You might be called upon to beat up a woman or set fire to something. I don't know the specifics. Haven't made up my mind on that yet. Be flexible. Be the sort of guy who can kidnap a child to get somebody to leave town or just bust up a truck.
Belligerence a MUST.
Drunken mayhem is your number one job. Am I looking for professional fighters? Martial artists? Not necessary. You don't even need basic boxing skills. Just swing haymakers wildly and break things. I need brawlers. I need you to scare away musical acts and hassle liquor deliveries. Menace the guy who brings the pickle bucket to Double Deuce once a month. Break someone's face open onto all their unpopped popcorn. Light matches in shoes, slash up the posters on their walls and unscrew the tops of the salt shakers. Put a bartender in the hospital.
You might be asking why do all this? Why bother extorting this one lousy road house and risk losing my fortune?
It's called the broken window theory. If I let one road house have fun and operate without extorting them, pretty soon every other road house in Jasper thinks they can get away with it. The barbers and roller rinks and greasy spoons and both veterinarians are ignoring my threats. There goes my ten percent. There goes my fortune of almost six figures a year. I need you to help me make an example out of the Double Deuce to preserve the order. I run this town and I won't let Dalton forget it.
The odds of some lone internationally famous bouncer punching his way through all of you to get to me, and seriously injuring or killing you in the process, is very unlikely. However, if it makes you feel better, I am willing to insure your throat against possible ripping.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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