It'd been his hip, dammit. If Whirly Girl hadn't landed on it that day, maybe he'd made the money he needed to join Allister and Jacob on their cross-country trip, maybe even made the PBR. He could have seen the country coast-to-coast, Maine to California, on the backs of the meanest sons of bitches a man could ride. Only he would have ridden them, and he would have won, beat those damn Brazilian mother fuckers coming up here honing in on an American sport. He could have made thousands, hundreds of thousands- hell, millions.
But Whirly Girl had landed on it, and it'd broke, so he'd taken up with a local girl and spit a no-count fag out of his dick. Seemed like God himself was laughing at John Twist. He'd put that boy on the woolies, but he'd given up when he'd seen what his son was, because there was no way a fag could make millions in bullriding. They'd only been able to have the one son.
John leaned back and finished off the crap coffee his wife'd made. She tried. But they just didn't have no money and this was not the kind of life he'd wanted to lead, dammit. But fuck-all had worked the way he'd wanted. Nothin never came to his hand the right way.
