Showboating

McDougal's been on a bit of a tear lately -- ever since he lost his job at the Pentagon. Me and McDougal and the boys were at O'Toole's the other day, when Scotty pipes up with, "Well I had no idea you used to play pro ball, McDougal!"

I don't know why I didn't jump up and sprint out the door at that very moment. I'd heard this conversation 300 times if I'd heard it a once. And it never ended well.

McDougal hears this, then does that weird thing with his brows. It's not quite a furrow. You know the look I'm talking about, right? The one where he kind of rolls them (or really the single brow) into a sort of a rolling sea of unkempt facial hair so that it kind of looks like a symbol they might use for Nessie if they were to erect a "Loch Ness Monster Crossing" sign.

And McDougal says, "Aye, lad. I did, indeed."

Scotty says, "Well who'd ya play for then?"

God help me, why didn't I leave the place?

"I played for the Memphis Showboats," McDougal says. "Under the fine tutelage of the infamous Pepper Rogers."

Poor stupid Scotty. That poor dumb bastard. "The Showboats?" Scotty guffaws. "What the hell are they?"

God, why did I stay? Why, why, why?

McDougal comes to his feet, but was still not fully perturbed. "They were the finest squad in the finest league ever to don the uniform of professional athletics. They were the true champions of the USFL."

I didn't even seek cover. I just sat stupified over my ale. Why, Zeus? Why not guide me in this moment of terror? Why not set me free?

Scotty takes a long pull from his stein and mumbles under his breath, "The USFL? That's worse than the Canadian Football L -"

And those were the last words dear old Scotty proclaimed before leaving this life.

McDougal picks up the table (one of those 250-year-old solid oak jobs that have been in O'Toole's since the Battle of Falkirk), and in about two and a half seconds, he gnaws the table down to a spear, and runs it clear through Scotty's gullet.

He then lops off Scotty's head with the back the back of his fist and impales it on the end of the spear. He grabs me by the forearm and hauls me outside -- though I'd done nothing wrong, I was now inexorably linked to this terror.

McDougal rips off the roof of Scotty's Mini, yanks his car keys out of the dead man's trousers, directs me to sit in the passenger's seat and hold the spear topped by Scotty's severed head, and climbs into the driver's seat. When he realizes the car's too small for his massive frame, he rips out the driver's seat, and plops into the backseat, and starts the car.

"We're going to America," he says.

And off we go.

Six hours later, we're in Miami, and McDougal has ordered me to walk six steps behind him, displaying Scotty's severed head, and singing his favorite Peter Morrison tune, whilst strumming the fiddle.