Midnight Ride with Thunderbolt

Y’all lean in, boys—Saint James Street James got a quick one for ya.

Back in ’52, I rode Thunderbolt into Dry Gulch Saloon—shirt half-open, muscles ripplin’,

package swingin’ so heavy it had its own gravitational pull. Three dance-hall

girls spotted me, dropped their drawers in unison. One fainted dead away; the other

two started a fistfight over who got to polish my saddle first. Biggest gunslinger

in town steps up, snarlin’, “This town ain’t big enough for both of us.”

I grinned, “Son, this town ain’t big enough for just one of me—my balls

need their own zip code.” He drew. I drew faster. Bang—shot the heel