THE ADVENTURES OF GEORGE PICKERING II, TEXAN
“Sorry, sir, but Sunny Smiles Kindergarten and Daycare doesn’t think your skillset would be a good fit.”
George Pickering II took a slug from his flask of Kesler’s (Smooth As Silk) before drawing his side-irons, two chromed .44 six-shooters a la walnut, engraved with the words NON UNPLUG AD ME FILIUS MEUS AUT ITERUM. He spit a disdainful squirt of tobacco juice across the pencil-necked liberal’s framed PhD and said, “Sorry, ‘doc,’ but I think you’ve made a grave error. I’m exactly what this daycare needs. You’re going to hire me right now.”
“Are you fucking insane?” the white-collar liberal sputtered.
“Don’t make me barricade this door, chump!” George Pickering II shouted. “The Drunken Belligerent Threats of Mortal Violence Technique has been passed down through my family for generation. In my honorable hands its success rate is 100%. I used it to save my son’s life just last week.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. You want the job? It’s yours. Welcome aboard. Now just let me use his phone to call, um, my, uh, supervisor. Uh, yeah. Hello, supervisor? We just hired this, uh, guy with a gun threatening to kill me at 492 Westchester Drive. Can you send over a, uh, Special Welcome Aboard Team?”
“Once again my family’s technique proves its merit,” George Pickering II said with a self-assured smile. “As Honorable Father always said, Justice Stands Behind The Gun.”

THE NEXT DAY
“Excuse me, sir, but the electric shopping carts are reserved for disabled customers only,” the manager at the Dollar General said meekly.
George Pickering II took a swig from his flask and draw his six-shooters. “I think you’ve made a grave mistake, honcho. I’m George Pickering II, GED (TBA), Drawer of Sidearms, Barricader of Doors, Grand Arbiter of Knowing How Things Are. You dare question my judgement? Tell me, do my barrels look clean?”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were disabled in that way. I apologize for the trouble.”

FINALLY
“Do you know how fast you were going, sir?”
George Pickering II narrowed his eyes at the cop through the rolled-down window of his Dodge pickup. He knew damn well how fast he had been going. If he believed something was so, it was so. If anyone disagreed, his guns would do the talking. “I was going sixty-five, officer.”
“I’ve got you clocked at eighty.”
George Pickering II took a swig from his flask, drew his firearms, and was immediately shot in the chest three times.
“Honorable Father,” he gasped. “I have sullied your name. Curse the oppressive government for sixteen generations. With my dying breath I pray that my sons, George Pickering III, IV, and V, will study and master the technique that has served me so well. Goodbye, cruel world. God bless Texas.”