I'm Sorry, My Friend.

Everyone knew nothing could stop the late Roustabout King from betting all the money he got on him when he was on the roll and so when he said he'd take me on I knew better that he cheated on the game. That pissed me off quite a bit since I had been losing a lot of money from the start of the game and so I said, you are one big sonofabitch liar. Everyone knew I shouldn't have said that but I did and there was no way anyone could ever make me apologize to the late Roustabout King because my head was spinning from too much German beer and the late Roustabout King was no better himself.

I saw it coming, his burly arms going after the collar of my overall, but things moved in slow motion when you're drunk as a skunk. I got hold of him by the wrist with both my hands, raising my knee for a good recoil to kick him in the groin. He read that pretty good to launch a counterstrike with a head butt to the chest. That knocked me off quite a bit, stopping the air in my lungs to leave me breathless for a couple of seconds but it felt like a full minute. I can't remember much what happened after that except we traded wild, unsteady punches that did little damage to any part of a face we had planned to hit.

When we came round the world felt like one big giant turntable spinning faster than our eyes could fix on an object as a reference point to figure what in the world was going on. We were oilmen used to rough seas but we were certainly no astronauts trained to spin like a top to be able to keep our guts from spilling out dinner all over the floor. Of course that wasn't the first time we got thrown out of a crummy bar in the sleazy side of town.

That was the first fight I had with the late Roustabout King. There were a few more fights throughout our friendship until he died, around this time last year. We made up each time, slapping each other in the back laughing like men born to be friends for life.

I'm sorry, my friend. I'm sorry we can't have more fights no more.

You were a good guy, man.