I hear these days that he’s gone and moved into an apartment with that bartender we used to know, fella name a Tex. They called him Tex on account of his belief that every mundane activity like cooking, drinking, or disciplining the neighbor children, could be automatically improved upon by doing it whilst also waving a gun. This, and also, because when we first met him, he had a tendency to wear cowboy hats, and really tight sturdy jeans, and an unnecessarily large silver belt buckle with the phrase “Everything’s Bigger in Texas” emblazoned across the front of it. After about a year, someone got around to introducing him as being from Texas while they were trying to get the fella laid. It turns out that actually Tex was not from Texas at all, was in fact from Akron, Ohio, and extraordinarily gay and extraordinarily gunhappy, which we all agreed was an acceptable compromise. I didn’t mind the idea of seeing old Tex again, even though I knew I’d never ever again agree to let him stay in my basement. He made an excellent Manhattan but I was never unaccustomed to fearing for my safety.