Arby would never move to Bunsen, Mississippi. Not in a million years.

Natalie smiled. This little town just kept looking better and better.

ARBY WAS TRYING to explain that arguing with Natalie was like trying to convince a dog not to dig a hole. "I'm very sorry to hear that, sir." The bartender couldn't care less and left.

"I know just how you feel," said the young man a couple of stools over. "My aunt decided this was the place to go for our family reunion. They're all down the street watching some banjo players."

"Banjos!" Arby Maple said in disgust.

The young man went across to the bartender and came back with two drinks, handing one over to Arby. "It's on me."

"Thanks, friend." Maple accepted it gladly.

"The modern-day victims of Yee Haw! must stick together," the young man announced and raised his glass in a toast.

The Scotch whiskey went down all right, but when it was done Arby had some grittiness on his tongue. "You know," his new pal announced, "the worst thing about this place is the people. The people here are very rude."

"Naw, just the opposite. They're too damn polite," Maple said. "Wait. You know what? You're right. They are rude. They act polite but they're really being rude, right to your face, all the time, and just dressing it up as Southern manners. At least in New York they tell you to your face if they think you're an asshole."

"Drink up, friend," the young man said.

Maple drained the Scotch whiskey and tried to swallow the grainy residue on his tongue. "They can't even wash a glass right."

"You do not like these people," the young man stated.

"You got that right."

"Especially the assholes who work here."

"Yeah, they're the ones who lay it on thick. They're the worst."

"You know who's the worst?" the young man asked. "It's that bartender," Arby Maple growled, rising from his bar stool and clenching his fists.