Author's Note: For hallonim, a cheer-up for being stuck inside.

On the Cutting Room Floor – Cleared Hot

"Shit." Raylan spoke aloud what they were all thinking. "We can't let these bull-necked, muscle-bound, cocky, garish-red-truck-driving bastards get the best of us. I am not going to accept defeat here. Can't we just shoot 'em?" He turned to Art with the question.

"No, Raylan, I don't think shooting them is a good idea under the circumstances. It probably wouldn't go over well with the powers-that-be. And it would be a PR nightmare." Art squinted across the field, sizing up the situation. "They've brought in hired guns and it's just too much fire power for us. We'll be lucky to walk out of here with our dignity."

Raylan reached over and picked up his hat, settled it firmly on his head and peered up at the harsh afternoon sun. "I ain't leaving with just my dignity. I want their balls on a platter, Art. I've never been bested before at my own game. We've still got one more go if we can just hold 'em down, give ourselves a shot."

"It gets late early out there," Tim said, nodding wisely.

Art turned on Tim with his frustrations. "Are you hearing yourself? Is the sun getting to you? That makes no sense whatsoever."

"Yogi Berra said it first." Tim turned his cap around, brim up front, spat out the sunflower seed shells he'd been chewing on all afternoon. "Don't get mad at me for it."

Art pressed his mouth shut tightly, one last mental run through his options before giving orders to his Marshals. "Alright, let's do this. We'll hold 'em down if we can, see if we can get an opportunity to even things out. Don't let any of them slip past you. I want 'em out fast." He mulled over an idea, said to Tim, "I'm going to take advantage of your skills, son. Set yourself up on a center line – go for the long shots."

Tim smiled grimly, "I got it covered."

The Marshals knew what was expected of them, what was on the line today and they took their positions determined to see it through. It was do or die. Art walked among them, a nod here, a pat on the back there, encouraging words where needed. He was fully aware that they had no hope of getting out of this one winners – they were facing some big guns, out of state probably – but he kept up the appearance of optimism for his crew.

It wasn't long before the Marshals' defenses were overwhelmed. They were down four and something had to be done to stop the bleeding. Art looked to Tim and gave him the nod, make it count. Tim reached around to his back, pulled his Glock, took a line and shot the next ball to leave the bat, a long fly, a sure homerun, knocking it out of the air before it could leave the outfield. It exploded, rubber and leather drifting now without momentum, just gravity tugging gently, and the pieces fell uselessly, littering the field below. The game ended in a brawl.

Art stared woefully at the fists flying, US Marshals and the Lexington Fire Department in an all out dugout-emptying war. He took off his catcher's mask, skirted the melee and slowly ambled to the outfield where Tim was still standing, a grin as wide as the brim on his baseball cap.

"Holy shit! Did you see that?" he called out happily to the Chief, waving his handgun at the baseball debris on the ground around him. "I always wanted to do that."

Art wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve, said calmly, "I meant you could run it down, Tim, not shoot it."

"Oh." Tim looked contrite, momentarily. "Oh well. That was a good shot, though, wasn't it?" And the grin stretched wide again.

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