From the publisher
Pock drove across Lurleen B. Wallace South Blvd. then Lurleen B. Wallace North Blvd., snagged a right turn into the back parking lot of the Broken Collarbone Bar and Grill, subtext We don't serve sissy food like chicken, turkey, or fish. The Bone, as it was known from Tuscaloosa to Reform, was all steaks and anything else butchered out of a cow, save milk. The motorcycle Pock had been following quickly parked as motorcycles were prone to do, its Harley engine left in the key of D while the bearded rider went through the ritual of butt burping and mouth farting before adjusting his body cast of leather. He spit to the north against the used brick rear wall of The Bone, revved the engine to a higher pitch, let it de-climax at its own pace, then silenced the horsepower and slid his three-hundred pounds off the wide black seat. He alighted boots first on the chewed up hardtop of the parking lot at the very moment Pock hushed the motor on his big Crown Victoria and opened the door. Adapt at looking slow while speeding, Pock walked, skipped, ran, left leg free, right leg in club foot harness and uninterested, right up to the back wheel of the motorcycle before the rider's helmet had cleared his head.
"Mother," the rider said as he turned and came chin to chin with Pock. "Give a man notice of your approach, friend. I might have shot you twice with no more effort than swallowing." He patted his black leather jacket for emphasis, a pointer that a gun could very well be concealed there. "I drew down once over in Gordo under a three-quarter moon after a guy with Georgia origins dropped in on me all a sudden. Got off two rounds into him ahead of thinking about it and was guiltless under Alabama law."
"Are you through with your monologue?"
"Pretty near."
"Well gracious, get nearer then. I'll hold my tongue."
The rider recoiled from Pock's ravaged and burn-scarred face, half concealed under a green floppy hat Sharpie stenciled with the message: Raise Plants Not Hell, and attempted to step in reverse but the bike and brick wall of The Bone would have none of retreat. "I live by rear view mirrors," he barked out in bluster. "Reality mirrors that show things and distances as they actually are instead of the silly-willy of objects being closer than they appear. You came up on my blind angle mister, negating my mirrors."
"But you were off-loaded when I snatched your attention. Mirrors were not in play."
"You violated my space. I didn't invite you to appear the way you did."
"Are we now switched to my side of the conversation?"
"I'll not interrupt but be quick about it. I'm thirsty for a beef and beer in The Bone."
"Are you familiar with the sunflower, common or otherwise?"
"Who hasn't experienced a sunflower?"
"Does its great numbers lessen its value to you?"
"I don't value flowers period since the death of my mother. Flowers remind me of her funeral, rest her engines."
