Way, way down in the great state of Texas lives Billy Bob Hall, and once upon a time Billy Bob Hall had been a bad, bad man. He’d done some time up in the pokey, but then done went and got himself out on parole. But you see, there was a yellowjacket up there in Billy Bob’s outhouse—even though he trying to walk the straight and narrow, he had a warrant hanging over his head for forgetting to check in with his parole officer. He’d spent two weeks fussin’ and frettin’, nervous as a fly in the glue pot. But Billy Bob, see, he was trying to be a changed man, the type so honest you could shoot craps with him over the phone. Problem was he wasn’t exactly looking forward to another stay in the Graybar Hotel, and, well, Billy Bob may not be a chicken, but he sure as hell had his henhouse ways.
Billy Bob knew the only way he was going to get down there to the Parker County Jail was to get a little liquid courage in his belly. So he pounded seven Budweisers and then he marched himself down the road a bit and stumbled right through that there jail’s front door, brave as a bigamist and drunk as a gat dang skunk. He told the sheriff’s deputy about his recent transgressions, ready to face whatever hell the law done brought to him.
Problem was, there was no problem. Billy Bob had been as confused as a goat on AstroTurf. There’d never been a warrant out there for his arrest. But that don’t mean he wasn’t guilty of nothin’, since he was stumblin’ about drunk as a fiddler’s bitch, stinkin’ like a barroom floor. The sheriff arrested ol’ Billy Bob for “public intoxication” and put him in a cell, where he’s still sitting, feeling so low he couldn’t jump off a dime.