As kids my brother and I, mainly my brother, befriended two other bothers. Twins at birth, the two were quite different in their demeanor and mannerisms throughout our childhood. I had always felt great empathy for these two because of their lifestyle at home and awkwardness with other kids.

Their father Mike, a full-blooded Indian, was quite the fellow himself. More so a friend than a father, he would almost always be completely canned. It was a progressive drunkenness that was controlled in the morning and throughout the day. But come the evening he was completely wasted.

Recently I had stopped in at the alley house where low and behold sat Mike. At first glance he had not realized it was I, the Bradley he had remembered from so long ago.

Mike, my brother and a friend had consumed a large amount of beer by this point in the afternoon. And were well on the way to be canned.

My brother and I had assumed that Mike had remembered me so neither of us went through an introduction.

Mike by nature is a very colorful fellow when drunk. So to say the least Mike is cheap entertainment. Approximately the cost of a six-pack. He immediately began to tell his most recent escapade with his would be cowboys. Known to most as the Wichita Police Department.

“That thing roared like a cannon,” Mike exclaimed. “I crouch behind that tree and let it go. BOOM!”

By this point three young bucks are in pure laughter by this drunken Indian as he continues with his story.

“So I run back inside and I sit in my chair. I hear a knock at the door. And you know who it is? Those, you know, those guys in those black helmets,” pointing to his head. “They’re coming to take my guns when I got illegals living all around me.”

Mike is referring to the S.W.A.T unit that had been dispatched by a call from a neighbor and is busting down his front door. Mike was in yet another encounter with his so-called cowboys where yet again he was being hauled off to jail.

“You know I was looking to go down in a blaze of glory,” Mike said as he pulled his buck knife from his butt-crack and waived it around. “But I didn’t. I never do,” he said slowly replacing the knife in its previous location and sitting in a position of failure.

As if his Cowboy and Indian adventure was brought to an abrupt stop by some sort of injustice, Mike moved on to another topic. His love for the smell of starter fluid for his car.