By "Mike"

Text Reader:

It had been about two weeks since the water tower incident. Sandy's initial anger at Randy and the others for paddling the Wrangler boys, especially Justy, had faded with the realization that as much as she disapproved, it was quicker and certainly less trouble than the legal avalanche they would be under now. Sandy was coming up the back porch steps after school, with a small grocery bag in her hands. Randy was in his usual chair, reading the paper, Daisy curled in his lap.

"Sandy, back in high school, did you send Justy to Coach McDonald for licks?", Randy asked casually, without taking his eyes off the paper

"What? No. What are you talking about?"

"Well I saw Mac at the barber shop today and Justy's name came up. He says you sent him out to him one time and he paddled him."

"I did not!", Sandy said emphatically, shaking her head. "Nice haircut."

Justy's massive brown diesel pickup was roaring to a stop in his adjoining driveway. He looked over toward the porch as he got out.

"Hi Randy and Sandy!" he shouted, always happy.

"Justin, will you come over here please.", Sandy said sternly.

"Yes, Ma'am.", Justy drawled, a puzzled look on his face . "Justin?", what did I do now?"

They were suddenly back in a teacher/student relationship. She could only recall one occasion where Justy was not a model student.

"Do you remember back when you were in my class, for some reason you didn't do your homework?" Justy had to think back about the incident. "First of all, I can't believe you didn't do your homework. I gave you detention."

"Yes Ma'am, Senior year. Well you see, Sandy, I took Mama to the emergency room the night before and we didn't get home till 3:00 in the morning. We didn't know what was wrong with her back then."


"You said "No excuses", and I didn't want to wimp out in front of the other guys. I'd never been in trouble before."

"I gave you and the other two boys three hours of detention, correct?", Sandy said angrily, only because he did not tell her about Joyce and the emergency room.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Did you go to detention?" she demanded.

"Well, not exactly, Ma'am. You see, the Assistant Principal, Mr. Wilkinson, he let me swap the three hours detention out for three licks from Coach Mac."

Sandy's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Seems reasonable", Randy said. Sandy's widened eyes turned on him.

"You see, Sandy", Justy explained, "I would have gotten licks from Coach Mac anyway. If you missed one of Coach's practices because you had detention? That was three licks. Automatic. Plus three laps. If you missed a game, it was FIVE. He had those rules posted in the guy's locker room. I was looking at three days detention, three missed practices. That's nine licks! Since I'd never had detention before, Mr. Wilkinson let me swap the three hours detention for three licks from Coach Mac."

Sandy was angry at being deceived. She hated Wilkinson, and was happy when Joyce finally got rid of him, during her last year as principal.

Justy should have left it right there.

"Didn't you ever wonder why there were never any guys in detention?"

"That's not true.", she answered. "Whenever I monitored it, there were some young men in there."

Justy turned to Randy and joked,

"Yeah. The B.Q.s."

Randy spit his beer on hearing that, and started laughing and choking at the same time. The "Band Queers". They had called them that in his day.

"OH!", Sandy yelled. "I CAN'T STAND THAT TERM! You know, some young men have more brains than it takes to get bucked off a horse!"

It was Randy's turn to push.

"Well looky there, Sandy", he said, winking at Justy, "It seems we BOTH paddled Justy!"

There was no laughing. Sandy turned to Randy, then back to "Justin", calm but angry.

"Well I hope you're satisfied."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Her voice got low and mean.

"And I hope it hurt."

Randy took a serious swig of his beer.

"It did."

Sandy picked up her grocery bag and stormed into the kitchen.

"Sandy! Come back. Sit with us!", they both pleaded.

"Fucking "Y" Chromosomes!" Sandy yelled through the screen door as it slammed behind her.

The comment sent Randy and Justy into fits of laughter. Sandy finally did come back after a few minutes, holding a large plastic container for Justy. The subject was over for now.

"Justy. I made some chicken soup for Joyce. It's very mild so she can eat it, but you'll want to spice yours up. Do you have your chili petines?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Listen Sandy I --"

She shoved the soup into his hands. End of conversation.

"And tell her I got a substitute for Tuesday, so I can take her to Chemo."


Justy remembered that afternoon well. It was a Friday, spring, Senior year. He and the other two boys decided to see Mr. Wilkinson together. Since Justy had never been written up before, he let the others start the conversation. He had gotten his share of licks from the male teachers, the Ag teacher, and of course, Coach Mac, all for general horseshit, but he had never gotten a pink slip before.

"What have you boys done to deserve these?" Wilkinson said, holding the three pink slips. "Justin, you've never been in here before, have you?"

"No, sir." Justy replied.

"Do you have an excuse?" Justy took a few seconds before answering. If the other guys hadn't been there he might have explained.

"No, sir".

"Okay. Three hours detention for you guys."

"Sir", one of the other boys began, " We can't miss practice. Can we swap these out for three swats from Coach Mac?" Wilkinson thought for a minute.

"Well David and Christopher, you're both frequent flyers around here. Those licks alone don't seem to be doing their job. Your detention sticks." Wilkinson was getting smarter.

"But sir! If you miss Coach Mac's practice because of detention, you get three licks! That's NINE LICKS!"

"Sorry to hear that", Wilkinson said. "I suggest you take them three at a time instead of all nine at once. I hear Mac really swings a paddle. Detention starts Monday." He turned to Justy.

"Justin, since this is your first time, I'm giving you the choice. Three hours detention or three licks."

"I'll take the licks, sir". The assistant principal turned the pink slip over and wrote "3X" on it and signed his name. He placed the other two slips in a basket on his desk.

"Okay. Bring this back to me signed by Coach Mac. I suggest you visit him today. I need the slip back by Monday before the lunch alarm. After that, it won't be accepted and the detention stands. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Wilkinson shook the hands of all three boys, two of whom left very dissatisfied.

"Nine licks? Are you fucking kidding me?" said Christopher, as they walked back to their classes.

Since it was Friday, there was no practice that day. Coach Mac's office was directly off the locker room, where he could keep an eye on things. There was a second door to his office, around the side of the white, cinder block building, where the "Lick Line" formed most afternoons, with guys who were sent there from Wilkinson or directly from the classroom. As a "courtesy", he gave his jocks their licks in the locker room after practice, so they didn't have to stand with the others in the lick line and so the other players would benefit from the licks and what had made them necessary. He made them stand and bend over and grab the edge of one of the wooden benches that was bolted to the floor, they ran their laps and yes, you had a red ass in the shower. After practice, he would return to his office and begin working on the lick line. The outside door was always open during this time, with the sound of a stern male voice followed by a brief pause, then the agonizing sound of a wood paddle swung hard across a bent-over backside. A single, hard lick was the most common, but they often came in sets of twos, threes and even fives. The guys were always in track shorts, because each lick carried with it a lap around the track, and Coach Mac demanded that uniform tee shirts and shorts be worn on the track, including a jock strap, because groin injuries were common in any sport, including running. Justy had taken all of his track equipment home the day before to get cleaned for the track meet the following day, including his track shoes. Fortunately, he and a teammate had discovered that they each had the same locker combination and could borrow from each other if they ever needed to. Justy opened Mitch's locker and prepared to change into his white shorts and tee shirt, leaving his jeans and boots inside. Both had been recently worn and smelled like it. Mitch's jock was hanging inside the locker, and Justy sniffed it briefly and reluctantly put it on, since guys got licks all the time for not wearing one, and Coach Mac would certainly be able to tell at such close range. Shit. Mitch had taken his track shoes home too. Justy waited until the line of about five guys died down. He was ashamed to be in the line, but he joined it after the last guy went in. He was barefoot.

A short while later came the sound of two loud, quick licks coming from the office. A track buddy of Justy's came out rubbing the back of his shorts, his face in a grimace of pain, headed to the track.

"How's he swingin' today, Greg?" Justy asked, knowing the answer.

"Fuckin' hard, bro. I'm gonna be shit in the track meet tomorrow.

Justy knocked on the open door, his tall, toned body completely filling the doorway, just as Coach Mac was replacing his mean-looking duct-taped paddle on the wall by the other door to the locker room. It hung from a nail by a knotted, old shoelace. He looped his whistle on top of it.

Coach McDonald was a high school coach straight out of central casting. He was about fifty, ex-military, stocky build, white school-emblem polo shirt, white shorts, socks, track shoes, a graying flattop haircut and a whistle around his neck.

"Hey Coach", he said softly.

"JUSTY PHELPS! You're just the man I need to see! I wanted to ask you if I could borrow your truck tomorrow to trailer all the track equipment to the track meet."

"Yes, Coach. Of course.... But I'm afraid there's a little business we need to settle between us first." He held out the pink slip.

"YOU, Justy? Three licks? What'd you do to deserve this?"

"It doesn't matter, Coach. But I deserve it.", Justy said, lifting the whistle and taking the paddle off the wall and handing it over.

"I always ask, so the guys will have to own up to it," Coach said.

"No homework in Mrs. Green's History class this morning," Justy said reluctantly.

"Why the fuck didn't I take my books to the hospital last night?" Justy thought, as he moved toward the desk. He and Joyce had spent almost three hours in the waiting room.

"Doesn't sound like you, but let's get this over with. Well, I know I've caught you a few times on the field and in the locker room, but I never thought I'd see your butt across my desk for punishment licks."

He stood up and took the paddle as Justy moved to the front of the desk.

"Well, you know the drill, Justy. Bend over the desk, hands on the mountain lions."

Two worn school mascot decals were stuck on the desktop, where countless sweaty hands had rested on them as they waited for their licks. Justy knew Coach Mac's paddle well, but it was always in the locker room for horsing around, cussing in the locker room or not following instructions. This was going to be different. He knew the licks would be hard and rapid-fire - a Coach Mac trademark.

"Eyes straight ahead on that wall" Coach instructed for the one-thousandth time, pointing with the paddle as he usually did.

The paddle rested against Justy's thin, white shorts before Mac swung it back and high, returning it hard and solid against his waiting butt.




The rapid-fire swats burned on each other like a fire in a barrel. The pain quickly mounted and continued to mount well after the paddling. Justy stood back up, handling the fiery pain as best he could as it continued to climb. He blinked back tears as Coach Mac placed the paddle on the desk.

"JUSTY! Where are your track shoes?", Coach asked exasperatedly.

"Yeah, well C-coach, I took them home to clean 'em up for the track meet!", Justy said through the mounting pain. "You said you wanted us to look our best!" His hands were flat on his flaming ass.

"Dammit Justy! I have to give you another lick for that!"

Justy turned to face him, thinking fast and frantically, dancing from foot to foot.

"No, no, no, you don't Coach! See? Listen. I-I knew th-there wasn't practice today and well, I didn't know I'd be seeing you for this." Justy picked up the paddle and placed it back on the wall.

"See, Coach? We don't need this. We're not going to need this". Changing the subject, hopefully. "Did you say you wanted to borrow my truck tomorrow?"

Coach mac was untying his shoe laces.

"Justy, go run your fucking laps. You can wear my shoes. There's clean socks in that basket. Then come back in. I want to talk to you about the track meet."

"Thanks Coach."


"Yes, Coach!"


"Yes, Coach!"

Coach Mac threw him his stopwatch. Justy was out the back door and headed to the track to run a mile, easy for him. His ass burned hard, but the running helped. He wondered if any of the guys knew these were "lick laps." Justy returned to Coach's door, out of breath, but sat down in the wooden chair and removed the shoes.

"Just under five minutes, Coach."

"You're usually well under that,"Coach Mac said, sprinkling foot powder into the shoes.

"Yeah, well Coach, ...the circumstances are a little different this time" Justy replied, still breathing hard.

"Justy, I'm thinking of putting you in fourth position in the relay tomorrow. You're the fastest, and I can use you at the end. What do you think?"

"SHIT! How the fuck am I supposed to think with this fire in my ass!" Justy thought, and couldn't hide his discomfort or even think about the conversation. Somehow, he concentrated just long enough to get a complete sentence out.

"Yeah, sure Coach." He clenched his teeth in pain, raising his blazing ass up off the chair and setting it back down again. Rapid-fire swats. Fuck. "If you switch Kevin to first and me to his position, that should work ..... but we've never practiced it that way."

"I'll see what Kevin thinks", Coach replied, "We'll decide tomorrow."

Coach Mac clasped his hands together on his desk, watching Justy squirm in his chair.

"Justy, you know why I make you guys run laps after your licks?

"No, Coach.", still catching his breath.

"Some of the guys cry after, and running laps gives them the privacy to do that," Coach Mac said, almost sympathetically.

"Well I considered it. Those licks hurt like SHIT." He closed his eyes as soon as the word came out. He knew the iron-clad penalty for cussing in the locker room, and it was hanging on the wall behind him. One lick. Automatic. How many licks had he seen given for the word "shit?"

"Sorry Coach."

"Hand me the paddle, Justy."

Justy stood up and got the paddle off the wall and placed it on the desk. Coach's smile revealed that he was kidding and that he was going to show mercy. It was enough for him to know that Justy thought he deserved it.

"You're not going to give me a lick for it?" Justy asked hopefully.

"Nah. Nobody was around to hear it. Plus, you're one of my best runners. I don't want to injure my best racehorse, and you ARE lending me your truck for tomorrow."

Justy heaved a sigh of relief and returned to his chair. He picked up the paddle to look at it. It was completely wrapped in filthy duct tape.

"Man, Coach. This thing is split clean down the middle."

"You know your dad made that for me in his wood shop. Years ago."

"NO! I didn't know that."

"I've got another one but I don't like it as much. It may not be pretty, but it still works."

"You bet your ass it works!", Justy said, not realizing he had cussed this time.

"I know how much it hurts. I had a coach like me in high school. Where do you think I learned how to give licks? My coach gave 'em just like that. Rapid fire. No time between licks. Burns way more, and there's nothing you can do about it"

"And it burns a lot longer," Justy said, shifting his weight in the chair.

Coach Mac was in a strange, reflective mood. He wanted to talk.

"You guys think I like being a prick, Justy?" Coach Mac asked honestly. Justy was surprised by the question and its frankness.

"You mean you don't Coach?...Sorry. Coach. Boy, did that come out wrong".

"Justy, you're one of the lucky ones. A lot of people have high expectations for you. Some of these young men have never had any discipline in their lives. They do what they want, they say what they want, with no consequences. I work 'em hard, and I praise their accomplishments and I punish their mistakes. A pat on the back is just as important as a board across the ass. I give them structure, discipline and consequences, to some of them, for the first time. Or at least I try to."

"We know that, Coach. And we respect you for it.", Justy said. This was a side of Coach Mac he had never seen before, and didn't know was there.

"You know, Coach", Justy said, "I can fix this thing for you in my dad's old wood shop. If it's a clean break, I can put dowels in it and glue it back together. It'll be good as new. Better. The crack will be stronger than it was before."

"You won't sand any of the signatures off?"

"I won't sand it at all. And no varnish. Just a repair job. It'll be back on that nail or in your hand Monday morning. And you're going to need it. David Harris and Christopher Bailey are coming to visit you. Wilkinson wouldn't let them swap out their detention this time, so they'll be missing a few practices. And Coach, ... please don't tell anyone that I fixed it for you, okay? I'm really doing it for my dad." Justy stood to leave.

"Understood. Sorry I had to give you those licks, Justy."

"Don't worry Coach. I'm sorry they were necessary. No hard feelings?" Justy stuck out his hand, and Coach Mac shook it.

Justy changed back into his Wranglers and boots, and took Mitch's shorts and jock home to wash. He stopped at Coach Mac's office to get the paddle.

"Coach, why don't you take my truck today and I'll take your truck home. I'll help you hitch the trailer."

Justy's ass still burned like hell snug in his Wranglers as he bent down to attach the trailer, but that didn't stop him from being helpful and respectful to the man who had just busted his ass.

The next evening, after the track meet, Justy was in his dad's old wood shop, in the back of his garage working on the paddle. He still had on his white running shorts and jock from the track meet. Bare chested, his tee shirt was hanging on a nail nearby. He carefully removed the dirty layers of duct tape, and when he did, the paddle was in two halves, split straight down the middle. He'd been working about an hour when he heard Randy's voice.

"I thought I saw a light on in here. What are you working on?" Randy saw the paddle in two halves and looked curious.

"This is Coach Mac's paddle. I'm fixing it for him."

"You know your dad made that for him."

"I just heard that today!"

"He made several. He made one for me back when I taught Ag. I hear it's still floating around the barn somewhere. Whose poor ass caused this to happen?"

"Cooper West's. Two years ago."

"Good." Randy said with an evil grin.

"He's been using it with duct tape ever since. It still works."

"Does he still swing that thing as hard as he used to?"

"And as fast.", Justy replied. "He busted my ass yesterday!"

"You Justy? What'd you do? I thought you were Mr. Perfect."

Justy stopped himself. He didn't want Randy to know it was because Sandy had sent him to detention.

"Just general locker room bullshit. He paddled a bunch of us."

"Well it didn't stop you from running your butt off in Marfa today. I saw you run that relay. I heard you beat your own best time."

"I did! Thank you. What? You saw me run?"

"Yeah, well. ... I was patrolling the highway anyway. I got there just in time for the relay. Sorry I missed your hundred yard dash."

"That's okay. I came in third."

Randy scoffed, picking up one half of the paddle.

"Well, this board didn't do Cooper much good. I heard he got his second DUI. One more, and he goes to jail. His dad is screaming at me. It was the State Troopers again, not the county. I can't do anything about it, not that I would."

"You're just in time, Randy.", Justy said proudly.

Justy placed the two halves next to each other. He had routed out five holes a half-inch deep in each side. He had already glued the five one-inch wooden dowels into one side. He joined the two together, sinking the exposed dowels into the other side. It fit together cleanly. Even the signatures were intact. He had found his several times, though Coach stopped guys from signing more than once because he was running out of room. On both sides.

"Wow! That's a perfect joint! Did your dad teach you how to do that?"

"Yes, Sir! All I have to do now is glue everything, and put it in the vice till Monday morning."

He added wood epoxy to the holes to accept the dowels and ran a thin bead all down the edge and onto the handle. Randy held it tight as Justy attached the other side. He placed it into the table vice, clamping it together as tight as he could and wiped off the oozing glue.

"Well", Justy said as he grabbed his tee shirt and turned off the light, "The dickhead may split it again, but it's not going to split in the same place."

"How many licks did he give you with that thing yesterday?", Randy asked, chuckling.



Monday morning, Justy loosened the vice and retrieved the paddle. You could see the hairline crack running down the middle, but it was a clean repair, and as good as new. He swung it a few times in the air before climbing into his truck and driving to school. He was early, and decided to deliver the paddle to Coach Mac, in case he needed it during the day. The lick line was usually pretty long on Mondays, especially near the end of the school year, and there would probably be some lessons that needed reinforcing from the track meet in the locker room.

"Hey Coach," Justy said, as he knocked on his open door and handed him the paddle.

"Look at that!", Coach Mac said, admiring the fine repair job. "Looks good as new."

"It's better than new, Coach. It's got wooden dowels in it. It won't split again."

The first bell rang, as Justy turned to head to class.

"Justy? Is that a dip can in your pocket?"

"Oh FUCK!", Justy said without thinking. "I meant to leave it in my truck."

He had refilled his can with chili petines the night before. The can had settled comfortably into its white ring home in the back left pocket of his Wranglers.

"It's my chili flakes, Coach. Honest."

"Justy, if they catch you with that thing they'll send you out to me. I charge two licks for a dip can." Coach Mac motioned to a long, horizontal window, where he had constructed a long pyramid out of about sixty empty, confiscated dip cans.

"Give it to me. You can come get it after practice this afternoon."

"Help yourself, Coach. Take all you want. I've got plenty." Justy said, changing the subject away from the "fuck" cuss word he had uttered earlier, filling the room with mindless conversation. "My bushes are loaded at home. My neighbor, Sheriff Green, can't grow them, even with the cutting I planted for him. They're only happy in my yard."

"Justy I can't carry that thing around here any more than you can. You know how many of those things I have confiscated? I stopped saving them when I finished the pyramid."

Justy pulled a small pill box out of his front pocket.

"My mama gave me this to carry some in. Sure helps get that bland cafeteria food up on its feet, especially on Mexican food day."

"Justy," Coach Mac said calmly, interrupting the nervous stream of conversation.

"Yes Coach?"

"I'm gonna let the dip can slide. But not the F-bomb. You guys are going to clean up your language, and you are one of the worst."

"Come on, Coach! .... Please! Right now? An F-bomb is two licks! I'm still feeling those three from Friday!"

"Right now. Might as well take this thing out for a spin. Plus, you get to be the first one to sample your woodwork."

Coach Mac stood up, paddle in hand, and moved to his familiar spot near the other side of the desk. Justy sighed and put his books down, and emptied the back pockets of his Wranglers. He spread his boots, bent over, hands on the mountain lions. Coach was beginning his back swing.

"Coach Coach COACH! ..." Justy shouted, interrupting his swing.


Justy stood up and turned around, sitting on the edge of the desk, in a last ditch attempt to save his ass.

"Coach. Please. I have a Math exam first period" he paused, sighing. "Can you please give me a break?"

Coach Mac hesitated for a few seconds, before turning around and hanging the paddle back on the nail.


"THANK YOU Coach!"

"I'll give 'em to you in the locker room this afternoon. I'm sure there'll be others."

Not exactly the answer Justy had hoped for, but at least his mind would be on Math and not on his backside. He quickly scooped his books off the desk and headed for the door before the second bell rang.

"Besides. I don't want to ruin your whole fucking day."

"Uh,Coach? I wonder where we're picking this up?"

"Go take your exam, Justy. I'm too old to change."

It was a long Monday for Justy, made worse with the knowledge that he had two licks coming at the end of it. Coach Mac seemed in a bad mood during practice, but Justy was the only guy on the track team getting licks.

Coach entered the locker room, paddle under his arm as usual.

"Phelps. One F-bomb. Two licks. Lets' go!"

The other guys were in various stages of undressing, but turned to watch as they always did. Justy made his way to the bench and firmly gripped the far edge of it with his hands.

"Hey Coach. Is that a new paddle?" one of the guys asked.

"Nope. Same one. A good buddy fixed it for me."

Aware that Justy did have the honor being the first to sample the paddle he had just repaired, Coach did his best to make the occasion memorable. The two licks were hard, loud and solid, as usual, with a little extra sting due to the fact that Coach no longer had to hold back for fear the duct tape wouldn't hold. Coach Mac seemed pleased on his end of the paddle, and Justy knew from the solid, fiery sting that he had done a good job. As Justy was headed to the door to go run his laps, Coach Mac stopped him and told him to wait. He entered his office and returned with a middle-aged man whom some of the guys recognized.

"Gentlemen, this is Mr. Salazar. He was your bus driver on Saturday's drive to and from the track meet. Mr. Salazar had the pleasure of cleaning all of the windows on the left side of his bus after you all flat-mooned one of the buses from West Tex. The one with the CHEERLEADERS ON IT!"

Some of the guys smiled at the floor, others just looked worried.

"I invited Mr. Salazar to witness what is going to happen next."

There was a massive groan throughout the room.


If Justy thought his Monday couldn't get any worse, he was wrong. His ass was on fire, and it was about to double. The first guy was in position, with about fifteen others waiting. Another mooning had happened the year before, with Justy and each of his teammates taking one lick for it, but a flat moon, against the glass, was indeed funnier but required a much harsher penalty.

"NOW.", Coach Mac shouted. "We're going to do this a little different this time. Since you guys enjoy taking down your shorts, when you get up here - you're going to drop 'em down!"

A look of pure shock spread around the locker room.


"YOU HEARD ME!" He moved behind the young man who was waiting in position. He slipped his right hand through the shoelace loop in the handle of the paddle and twisted it several times, securing his grip on it for the task ahead.


Kevin, Justy's relay partner, stood up and slid his shorts down. With his legs spread, they stopped between his ass and his knees, fully exposing his white ass, framed by his jock strap. He bent back down, waiting for the worst. The question on everybody's mind was .... "how many licks?"




The answer was "three." Rapid fire.

"Mr. Salazar, would you like to add anything?" Coach said, offering him the paddle. The man shook his head "no".

Kevin jumped up as his ass reddened before their eyes.

"Go stand facing that first locker", Coach Mac shouted. "NO. Keep the shorts down."

Mr. Salazar, shocked at first at the hardness of the swats, watched with his arms folded as each young man approached the bench and received three hard, loud, quick swats across their bare asses. He winced in empathy as Coach's board landed quick and hard across bare asses, and watched as the line of bright red asses grew along the locker wall. Justy wondered how he was going to take these three additional licks bare assed, but when his turn came he slipped his shorts down and presented his bright red ass for additional wood. The pain was excruciating, as his ass moved from red to scarlet. For Justy, these were licks number three, four and five on top of the three from Friday. One guy got three licks - one for no jock strap. Once all the licks were given, Coach Mac once again pointed with the paddle to the long line of red butts.

"Mr. Salazar, on behalf of the Alpine track team, I hope you are satisfied that justice has been served."

"Indeed it has, sir", Mr. Salazar said, shaking his hand and turning to leave the locker room.

"GO RUN!" Coach Mac, ordered, as the shorts were quickly pulled up and the guys headed to the track, most rubbing their butts.

"I love my job!", he said as the last few filed out the door, confident that he had adjusted the punishment to fit the crime. He moved to his office side door and welcomed the first of about five guys from the lick line into his office who had been waiting longer than usual. They, of course, had heard the forty or so swats from the locker room and were visibly nervous. Five guys was about average for a Monday, especially this close to the end of the year.

Justy showered and changed back into his Wranglers and boots. He knocked on Coach Mac's door to get his chili petines back. He was in a lot of pain and his face was red from running. He walked stiffly inside the office.

"So Justy. What'd you think?", nodding to the paddle hanging on the wall.

"If I tell you what it stings like, you'll just have to give me another lick."

Coach smiled, accepting the compliment, opened his desk drawer, and slid Justy's dip can back.

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