“Goddamn, Biggs, stop fuckin with me!”
Goat stared wildly at Professor Biggs Hoson. Biggs rocked his lanky frame on the back two legs of his chair and tugged at his Rice University t-shirt. Big Titty Vicky sat next to Goat, topless with green body paint depicting a marijuana plant growing up from her navel to her neck with leaves providing a scarce veil for her nipples. She toked dreamily on a big joint.
They rested in the shade of a Tiki bar at Wayno’s. A bright and cloudless blue sky blanketed the rest of the decking outside the tiki. A band named The Pacemakers were wrapping up Jimi Hendrix’s Big Joe. The Pacemakers were all there at the creation of rock and roll itself, hanging out at Sun Records in Memphis with Sam Phillips, but he refused to record them. They would soon take a break and go inhale pure oxygen. Not for nothing were they called The Pacemakers.
Wayno’s hosts the annual Where the Hell is San Leon Festival. San Leon is roughly a 5,000 acre trapezoid peninsula jutting out into Galveston Bay and is roughly equidistant between the Houston and Galveston ports. The notorious pirate Jean Lafitte was said to have had a slave-running operation there a hundred or so years ago but then, hell, every burg and inlet along the Texas coast claimed Jean Lafitte as part of their heritage.
San Leon is the kind of place that attracts drifters, outlaws, rednecks, derelicts, libertarians, the homeless and the hopeless, and kindred spirits seeking refuge from social order and decency. All were out in force today at Wayno’s. Some wore shoes. Some were missing a goodly number of teeth.
The festival doubles as a mayoral election of sorts. Patrons vote by laying their money on a pool table inside Wayno’s main bar, whose décor can best be described as tattered and dingy, a prayer on stilts against the elements. One dollar equals one vote. The odds-on favorite was Junior Thibodeaux who had going in his favor that he was the only candidate. Nonetheless, he proudly handed out koozies emblazoned with his name to potential voters. This was not against the campaign rules as there were no rules. The prior mayor, Billy “Shakes” Timbre, had fallen down on the job, literally, many times. He had been prohibited from running for re-election but not for alcoholism which is pretty much understood to be a part of the job – otherwise, there would not be a mayor as there would be no candidates. Junior Thibodaux, on the other hand, could hold his liquor and besides, made a legendary gumbo.
Goat and Big Titty Vicky counted the votes but disagreed on the total. It did not matter.
Goat, the unofficial master of ceremonies, announced the winner, Junior Thibodaux to no one’s surprise. Goat proudly proclaimed the monies would go to building a parking lot at the little league field down the street. He then launched into a lengthy tirade extolling the virtues of liberty and freedom, a speech literally and liberally littered with f-bombs. He dared the jackboots of the totalitarian state to force incorporation on San Leon while waving around his AR-15 for good measure.
Junior, the newly elected mayor, did not speak.
This, then, was the setting in which Professor Biggs Hoson and Goat debated theoretical physics. Biggs taught economics at Rice. He was tall, lean, with a haggard, rustic look and fit right in San Leon. He put the laissez in laissez-faire. Goat had a hang-dog look. Everything about him contributed to this look – droopy eyes, droopy long hair, droopy Fu Manchu mustache, droopy skin.
Big Titty Vicky provided atmosphere and aroma for the debate. She was young, blonde, big-boobed, and stout.
“Hell, what’d you call that thang?” Goat burped. “Whazzit named after you? Says I ain’t even standing here?”
Biggs pushed his cowboy hat back on his head and smiled. “No, though I can see why you would think so. No, it’s called Higgs Boson.”
“You messin with me?” Goat accused. “You’re Biggs Hoson talking about Higgs Boson? Who’s that? Your cousin?”
Biggs spun his Lone Star beer around once. “Ok, let’s just call it the Higgs particle instead.” He took out a notebook and started writing out a formula with a red pen.
“Jesus, Biggs, you know I can’t add nothin’ up, not even with the help of Big Titty here!” Vicky nodded. “How you expect me to follow that? Just tell me in, you know, English or whatever.”
Vicky nodded again, “Adding is for pussies,” she opined. She went to get another San Leon Bomb, two vanilla ice cream scoops with equal parts bourbon, tequila, and Jägermeister poured over them and topped with a cherry.
“Hmmm, could you use a calculator?” Biggs offered. He was serious.
Goat intended to lurch across the table and grab Biggs by the throat, but fell out of his chair instead, knocking over his San Leon Iced Tea – equal parts bourbon, scotch, rum, tequila, and gin in a 24 oz glass. He lumbered back into his chair in stages. Bit Titty Vicky settled in with her San Leon Bomb and took another toke.
“Just tell me, man,” Goat sighed.
“Ok” Biggs spun his Lone Star another half-turn. “The Higgs Boson proof explains why some fundamental particles have mass when the symmetries controlling their interactions should require them to be massless, and why the weak force has a much shorter range than the electromagnetic force.”
“What, what? Say what?” Goat slurred.
“So, the proof proves the universe doesn’t exist.”
“That does it!” shouted Goat and proceeded to lurch across the table for Biggs, but just fell out of his chair again.
Big Titty Vicky hadn’t really listened to any of this since it sounded like guys talking about football. But she knew she had to come to the rescue of her man. She stood up and cupped her breasts, took a couple steps toward Biggs and shouted,
“Particles? You want particles? Well, suck on these particles, bastard!’ And with that, she pulled Biggs out of his chair, pulled his hat down over his eyes, spun him around, and kicked his ass over the railing.
And that’s how Big Titty Vicky proved Biggs Hoson doesn’t exist.
Copyright © Johnny Clack 2022
Copyright © Johnny Clack 2022
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