Congressionally Challenged chapter 2

Rick Slackett entered the roadhouse on Kentucky Hiway 68 just outside of Murkin, and dropped a tightly bound stack of tabloids on the bar, near the Pabst Blue Ribbon tap. "How's business, Rucker?" he said to his old chum behind the bar.

"Well, look who's here," the young barman grinned in the slow, thick twang that characterized Central Kentucky. "How ya doin', Rick? You been scarce as union jobs around here." Rick engaged the blade of the long, thin knife he had pulled from his pocket to cut the plastic binding that secured the papers.

"The July issue of Kentucky Rhythm, personally delivered to your doorstep by the new Associate Editor. Now that's service." The windowless clapboard lounge was dimly lit by a broad assortment of cheesy neon beer signs given away over many years by the local wholesaler. It was not yet very crowded at quarter past eight that summer Thursday night.

Rucker pulled a copy off the top of the pile and turned to the table of contents on page three. "You're doin' good. You get to write the top story and be chief paperboy. That six years you spent in journalism school has finally paid off."

"Hey, I'm photographer and ad salesman too. I told you I'd make it big someday." The barkeep tossed two beer glasses in the air, making them do double back somersaults before landing bottom first in his hand in front of the PBR tap. He handed the first full glass to Rick and toasted him with the second. "Here's to hanging out in bars gettin' wasted."

"Same to you. I'm glad to see you keeping your chops up. I remember how many beer bottles you used to break. You know I've been thinking about getting Green River Day back together," Rick tapped on the bar for emphasis, his slim body leaned at an awkward angle, "and I'll need you back as my drummer."

 "Right. It's been seven years since you broke up the band to go to college, and every time you're back here you want to get it together again. Some of us have real lives, now."

"Just remember, when I make it big, Rucker, I'll make you eat those words."

"You just might do it, pal. You just might do it." Rucker thumbed through the Rhythm, which covered an eclectic mix of music, theater and lifestyle-oriented features. "What's this piece you wrote here about this Coatsdale guy? I thought you only wrote about music."

"What a piece of work that guy is. He's running for Congress, like he's some sort of revolutionary. A Republican revolutionary, if you can believe that. Kevin Taylor -- he's the editor - he likes to have the occasional political piece. He thinks it gives his rag more class, like it's Rolling Stone or something. This guy Coatsdale's puffed up so full of smoke that I was wheezin' half way through the interview."

"We could use a revolution around here. I should own this joint. Power to the people. Yeah!" Rucker unscrewed the lid from a two gallon jar of pink sausages floating in murky brine. He skewered a couple with two long toothpicks and offered one to Rick.