There are some men who can live and die by one name alone. They are a dieing breed and a sturdy lot for the long haul. When Edwards and I returned from breakfast we were eye to eye with such a man. He stood every bit a defensive lineman but had the innocence and dryness of a cool mountain walk. That solitary figure we could no sooner escape than the taxman was Dirt.
He was in the dart room sipping on the remnants of the keg when we walked in with uncommonly jovial moods for a Friday morning soaked in liquor remnants and battered by a Princess breakfast. Edwards and I looked at the form lounging on the sofa and yelled in unison, "Dirt!" To our salutation Dirt continued drinking his draft and relaxing almost oblivious to our shouting until we heard him shift positions.
"Well, piss on you, then," he smiled while emptying the final quarter inch of amber liquid and then placing the vacant mug on the coffee table by the Cardio-Chamber. "I've been waiting on you boys for over an hour now. I said ten o'clock and it's almost noon."
I looked at Edwards and said, "Dirt, that's more than an hour. I think you need to get it together."
"Shit," fumbled Dirt with the last thought while staring at the scattered remains around the dart room. "You boys had yourselves quite the party last night?"
"It was alright," laughed Edwards. "You?"
"That's what I came down here for," added Dirt ominously. "Get in the Bronco and I'll tell you all about it on the way."
"On the way where," I asked as if I didn't have a clue already? It must be West Virginia. It was only West Virginia. And I like, like it, yes, I do. West Virginia is the home of every range of nude and illegal entertainment, the birthplace of the nitrous bars, and the final resting place of the Hippie movement. Oh, mountain momma, you can take me home along your country roads any night and put me to bed worn, weary, rode-hard, and wet.
"West Virginia, of course," smiled Dirt.