I did not want to see Cissy’s cowboy with other cowboys, accomplishing bad boy doings in an underground men’s club on Nebraska Street in downtown West Stockton. The last thing I wanted to witness was my brother-in-law being blown by a guy, or in some other position with a man that could have been construed as a bad influence. Yes, he was adorable and handsome, but it was still a line I didn’t want to cross.
Country’s Duty was a hole and needed to be closed by some higher power, whether it be by God or a legal source. Its owner was Shelly DeCoop, who was once Shawn DeCoop, and she (thirty-two years old and as large as Texas) was scum of the earth. The place smelled of piss, c*m, and s**t. Clouds of m*******a floated from one rose-colored cement room to the next. Because there were no doors
