CHAPTER ONE:
THE WATER TOWER, PART ONE
By "Mike"

"FUCK!"

Sheriff Randy Green turned past the rodeo arena on his way into town like he always did. That's when he saw it. He couldn't believe his own eyes. Rising just past the open rodeo arena, stood the Alpine water tower, today covered with fresh graffiti. He turned off the road and headed to the water tower and surrounding picnic area, cursing as he went. The area was covered with muddy, mashed grass, evidence that many vehicles had been there the night before. The ground was covered with broken glass, resulting from dozens of dropped long necks from the tower. Discarded buckets and cans of paint were tossed onto the ground - exploding in a black, blue and brown mess that covered the grass and splashed up onto the picnic tables. Randy retrieved a partial bucket of blue paint and climbed the tower, splashing his hands with the wet paint as he climbed the steep ladder. Once on the platform, he could see the extent of the damage. He took a discarded brush and painted over the word "fuck" several times, and while he didn't much improve the looks of things, at least he squashed the concerns of parents from the nearby elementary school, which had a clear view of the profanity. Standing at a full six-feet-seven inches, he could easily reach every place the vandals had reached - (yes, he played basketball). With the annual college ranch rodeo coming up in two days, he had a fairly good idea of who was responsible, as the tower was immediately next to the rodeo arena. That's when he saw it. Some moron had taken a Wrangler Club branding iron, dipped it in black paint, and "signed" the masterpiece.

The Wranglers was an all-male fraternity comprised of mostly cowboys, the rodeo team, Ag students and farm and ranch students. As a proud alumnus of the Wranglers himself from some thirty years prior, Randy currently served the group as Alumni Adviser. As county sheriff, he readily drove drunk members back to the dorms or their apartments - no questions asked - and helped however he could whenever they got in trouble, which they always seemed to do.

Since his day, The Wranglers had finally been kicked off campus, for good this last time, once again for hazing. Their hazing was notorious, - and designed to scare away the Greek frat rats. The Wrangler paddles that hung on their walls were not ornamental. They were cut and sanded from a full one-inch thick board of Texas live oak - they were designed to deliver and withstand a lot of abuse. They paddled, and they paddled hard. Randy often recalled the hard, loud swats and the searing pain. He remembered his pledge year, bending over for those swats, and the constant bruising that came from it. All the frats paddled, but The Wranglers moved it to another level - thick boards swung hard - in a time-honored, brutal tradition they called "Butt busting". Simply put, this custom involved fewer, harder swats, designed to toughen the pledges, build character, and keep out the Greek frat boys.

Randy pulled his truck into his parking space at the seventy-five-year old courthouse and stormed up the steps two at a time, past the ladies in his front office, for the first time forgetting to say "Good morning, ladies". They had seen the water tower, like everyone else in town. Randy was even-tempered, a true gentleman, and a joy to work for, so a bad mood was very rare. But they expected it today.

"Set up a meeting ASAP. Coach Bob Ryan (the head coach of the rodeo team), deputy David Keller, and whoever the hell is the Foreman of the Wranglers."

He slammed his door shut, for the first time in months, before opening it just wide enough to stick his handsome, white-haired head out.

"Please."

Exactly one hour later, the four men were assembled in Sheriff Randy Green's office, in somber silence until Sheriff Green began to speak, directing his comments to Jeff Mitchell, a Senior Ag major, and Foreman (president) of the Wranglers.

"As one past Foreman to another, you guys have really done it this time. Do you realize we just painted that tower last year for $30,000? Your group has embarrassed the entire town, presented profanity to the elementary school next door, and totally destroyed a picnic area."

Rodeo Coach Bob Ryan added, "And two days before the rodeo. We've got four college teams and all their livestock set to arrive in town starting today."

"Bob, we're not having a rodeo WITH THAT SHIT ON OUR WATER TOWER!," Randy shouted. He turned his anger toward Jeff Mitchell again, Wrangler Foreman.

"How many of you were involved last night? Judging from the broken beer count, it looks like a lot."

"I-I don't know, Sheriff," Jeff stammered.

"Well how many guys are in the whole fucking club?"

"Sixty one, Sir."

"How much money in the bank account? I need thirty thousand to repaint the tower."

There was a long pause.

"A couple hundred bucks, Sir."

"Fuck!"

"Well, How much do you guys stand to make at the rodeo? The county can fine you all your profits from tickets and concessions and use it to paint the tower. No beer money this year, guys."

Coach Bob Ryan cautiously interrupted, "Randy, ... all the proceeds from the rodeo are now donated to the children's orphanage."

"Fuck!" Randy shouted, exasperated.

He turned his gaze back to the Wrangler foreman, his eyes becoming slits of rage.

"I've already talked to Woody. He's closing his bar tonight. I want you to call a MANDATORY meeting of all sixty-one of you guys, and I'll figure out what to do with you all. I expect one hundred percent attendance. Understood?"

"Yes, Sheriff."

"ONE HUNDRED PERCENT! And plan to be there a while. I want you all to gather in the parking area and wait until I call you in to the meeting. I want everybody sober and on time. This is going to be a shitty Friday night for you guys. Alright. Get going!"

Jeff quickly excused himself, happy to be out of the hot seat.

Randy turned his attention to the other two men.

"Do you realize this is a class-one felony, because of the amount of damages to public property? The easiest thing to do would be to turn this over to the legal department. If I do that, the guilty ones will be guaranteed jail time, fined, expelled from school, and have a permanent criminal record. The rich ones' fathers' will lawyer up, and pay big fines to keep their sons in school and out of jail. I don't want that. Plus, the university is humiliated by cancelling the rodeo, with all the competitors and livestock already headed this way. Not to mention, no money for the damn orphans. FUCK!"

Randy went on.

"They don't have any money, so I can't fine them. They've already been kicked off campus by the university so there's no money there, and they don't have a rich alumni fund to bail them out. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

The men shook their heads in frustration. Randy leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on the far wall. Next to his Rotary plaques, photos, diplomas and awards hung his Wrangler paddle, where it had hung for over thirty years. As he centered his gaze on the paddle, he spoke calmly.

"You know what the Wrangler motto is? It's corny, but it's well-known to each of those boys. "All for One, and One for All." That means that whatever one Wrangler does, good or bad, they all do. He squinted his eyes, staring at the paddle in silence.

"...What are you thinking, Sheriff?" Deputy David Keller said cautiously.

"I know what these boys understand. I know how they govern themselves. And I know how we can settle this thing tonight."

He stood up, walked over to the paddle and removed it from the wall and brought it back to his desk. Deputy Keller continued, incredulous.

"Sheriff, are you serious? You heard that guy. You're going to paddle sixty one of those little shits?"

"Yep, about ten licks apiece ought to do it. The hardest, best ten licks we can deliver. And you men are going to help me. And they paint the water tower tomorrow."

Bob Ryan, the rodeo head coach, shook his head in disbelief.

"Randy -Sheriff, tomorrow is a mandatory work day. They're busy all day feeding and penning livestock, setting up concessions and sound equipment for the ranch rodeo Sunday."

"Bob," Randy repeated, "We're not having a rodeo WITH THAT SHIT ON OUR WATER TOWER! Does anyone have a better idea?"

There was no answer.

"Okay, men. I'll see you at Woody's tonight at 6:00. The boys get there at 7:00. And keep quiet about this idea, in case I come up with a better one."

Randy watched out the windows as the two men walked out of the courthouse and talked together before going to their separate trucks, knowing full well they were shaking their heads in disbelief. He kind of wasn't believing it himself, but the last things these guys needed was a criminal record, and all the shit that went with it. The number of guys involved would bury his office in paperwork, and Randy was always conscious of his sworn campaign promise to make the people and needs of the county his top priority. He immediately called Woody at the bar to run the idea by him. To his surprise, Woody thought it was a good idea and agreed. It was a relief that somebody agreed with him and didn't think he was completely crazy.

Woody's Barroom was the unofficial Wrangler headquarters. The bar itself was a former whorehouse, set down a long gravel driveway with a rusty electric gate which Woody could open or close from inside the bar after hours or whenever the Wranglers had a meeting. When the gate was closed, a large sign that read "Closed for Private Function" greeted the few non-Wrangler customers, and all Wranglers knew the simple four-digit code, "1969", the year of Woody's birth. With his built-in Wrangler customers, Woody didn't want any other guests, especially women. The guys' girlfriends hated Woody's. It was smokey, dirty and had tobacco spit on the floor and walls where the cowboys had missed the spittoons, which were simply buckets with sand in them. What the women really hated was the one and only bathroom - which had a stained, single toilet with no privacy, and a long, metal piss trough. The hot water never worked, but no one ever complained. The Wrangler pledges kept the place clean in the spring, but once they became actives, it received a lot less attention. Mostly, the guys just went outside and wizzed in the grass. Located out from town near the rodeo arena, it was filled with Wrangler photos and memorabilia, deer heads, pinups, and of course, paddles.

"FUNNY, HOW WOODY NEVER MARRIED."

Early on, Woody had extended an open invitation to the Wranglers to use his place as their home. There were a couple of reasons for his hospitality. One, he knew they drank a hell of a lot of beer, and their use of his bar as a hangout insured that they bought it from him. Second, the hazing didn't seem to bother him, especially the paddling, and he always seemed to be around when those paddles got put to use. He had a secret, hidden kink in seeing those young bucks bend over for those hard, loud licks across their Wrangler jeans. In fact, an earlier Wrangler board, suspecting this, made him an honorary member of the organization, presented him with a paddle of his own, and gave him the title "Official Disciplinarian". Not much was known about this drummed-up title, but it endeared him even more to the Wranglers, further insuring they had a home. When he was called on to deliver "his duty", he had a full-swung, right handed swat that equaled or surpassed anything the younger guys would dish out. He was called on for birthdays, poker bets and whenever a butt needed a good, hard swat. Each Spring, pledges were brought in regularly to satisfy his appetite.

More than one Pledge Trainer brought a group of pledges into Woody's bar, saying "Woody, these lazy guys need a taste of your "wooden, motivational device" whether it was deserved or not. Usually it was not, of course, but the Pledge Trainers knew the importance of keeping Woody supplied with new butts to paddle.

He was neutral, gave the same hard swat to everyone, didn't ask questions, and took his job very seriously. The fact that he was enjoying himself didn't seem to matter to the guys. In fact, a swat from Woody became a badge of honor, and one that all the pledges and all of the actives knew all too well. It was an honor to sign the back of his paddle afterwards, and it was getting harder to find an available space. It was always a big deal to take a guy to Woody's on or near his birthday. Woody would give the "birthday boy" a "Swat and a Shot", one of his scorching hard swats and a shot of whiskey to go with it. Of course, the pledges had birthdays multiple times during their pledge ship, and the actives who brought them in used their "birthday swats" to get a free round of shots for themselves! Woody knew what was going on, but he never complained or asked questions. He was enjoying himself too much.

A former rodeo cowboy himself, he kept his flat belly, and looked like an aging cowboy, obviously handsome in his younger days, but hardened by hard liquor, Winston cigarettes and Copenhagen tobacco. He was in his late forties, but looked much older. Funny, how Woody never married.

At six o'clock, the four men gathered at Woody's. Sheriff Randy Green had changed into his official uniform; starched khaki shirt and pants, brown boots, grey Stetson, sheriff's badge and gun belt with his revolver. He typically wore Wrangler jeans with a white shirt, with his badge pinned on the shirt pocket. But tonight he looked intimidating in his full uniform. Deputy David Keller wore his uniform, Stetson and gun also.

Woody and rodeo coach Bob Ryan wore the Wrangler jeans and boots they had on earlier.

The men talked about how this mass paddling was going to work. First of all, sixty-one men, ten licks apiece was a whopping 610 licks! And Randy said he wanted them all to be HARD! "Remember", he said, "we're putting a felony conviction, jail time, a criminal record and community service all into a ten-swat package."

Woody asked him, "Sheriff, why'd you settle on ten swats?"

"Because," Randy said, "in my time in Wranglers, the swats were so hard, that seven was the most you could give a guy in one licking. According to Justy, my godson, that's still true these days. But this is a special case. It deserves more wood. Seven's not enough, and a dozen is too much. So ten swats it is. I'm telling you, these guys are used to hard licks. Don't be afraid to swing and swing hard."

Coach Ryan picked up one of the paddles that was in the stack on the pool table.

"How hard? I've uh, I've never been on the handle end of one of these things. I mean, how hard is too hard?"

He was right. Woody of course, knew how to swing a paddle, but the other two men didn't. How hard to hit was a good question.

"Woody", he began, "is there such a thing as "too hard" to a Wrangler?"

"Nope," Woody replied. "Any swat delivered with one hand is legal. No two-handed swats, but any one-handed swat is good. The harder the better." Bob and David still looked unsure.

"What is normal?", David asked.

Randy thought for a minute, before taking a deep breath.

"Okay, Deputies, we're going to have a lesson in giving licks." Randy walked over to the pool table and started removing his gun belt and emptying his back pockets. There was only one way to show them what he wanted.

"Woody - you mind showing these guys what we're talking about?" Woody tried to hide his excitement at the prospect of swatting the fine ass he had fantasized about every time he saw Randy. The other two men couldn't believe their eyes.

"Are you sure about this Sheriff? I -I", Woody said in fake protest.

"Yeah, I am. I want to make sure this is done right, plus I need to feel what they're gonna feel."

He stood about three feet back from the pool table, and spread his boots wide. Because of his extreme six-foot-seven-inch height, he had to spread his boots wide enough, to bring his ass down low enough to get hit. Too high, and he could take a swat to the back of his balls, a side effect of hard paddling that did occur from time to time. He bent forward and grabbed the side of the pool table.

"By the way," he said, "this is how I want them to stand. Like this. Legs spread, gripping the edge of the table."

"Sheriff", Woody said, "I'm gonna give it to you like I give it to the guys, right?"

"Understood".

Woody took the paddle, and placed it across Randy's perfect ass, addressing the other two men.

"You want to hit here," tapping the paddle on the meaty part of Randy's ass, right below the empty khaki flap pockets. "Not up here, or down here. Don't stand too close. Stand off to the left, so that your whole arm is straight and the board lands flat across his butt and not at an angle, not like this or like that. When you're ready, draw your arm way back and high for a full swing. Okay, Randy. Remember this was your idea."

He firmed up his stance, centered the paddle on his ass, drew it way back and up, and sent it flying, landing hard and solid across Randy's butt in a hard, fiery lick that sounded like a shotgun on that starched backside.

"KA--- WHAAAAAAACK"!!!

Randy's face twisted into a hard grimace of pain, and he spoke through clenched teeth. He rose to his full height, his hands went to his backside.

"Holy FUCK! I forgot how much that FUCKING HURTS! DAMN YOU WOODY!"

David and Bob were speechless-eyes and mouths wide open. It was harder than hard. Finally Bob Ryan spoke.

"Are you telling me those boys are getting TEN OF THOSE?"

"Sheriff- if you think it's too hard I can dial it back a little." Woody stammered.

"No Woody --," he was breathing through clenched teeth, "THAT'S what they need. Can you make 'em all like that?

"I'll do my best, sir". He could feel his dick starting to grow at the thought.

Randy spoke with great difficulty, trying to overcome the pain, that seemed to grow with each passing second. He talked as best he could.

"I want each of you to give each man two licks - just like that one. I'll deliver the last four. That'll make ten. Woody, you go first, then Bob, then David, then me, understood?" The men nodded, as Randy got back into position.

"Bob, you and David. Your turn."

Deputy David protested. "No way, Sheriff. Can't do that."

"Deputy, that's an order! Seriously, I want to feel what they're gonna feel. I've got to take what I'm gonna dish out."

"Look, David," Randy shouted, "the guys will be here soon. I want this done right."

David took the paddle, and stood to the left of Randy, he lined up the paddle on his ass, right below the khaki flap pockets as he had seen Woody do.

"You ready?"

"Don't ask me if I'm ready! Just DO IT! YOU'RE the man with the paddle. YOU'RE in charge here!"

David took, a nervous breath.

"Here goes ...."

"WHAAAACK!"

David looked at Randy for a reaction. There was a slight grimace of pain on his face, mostly from the paddle aggravating the earlier swat from Woody.

"Got to be a lot harder than that! Go on -- SWING the board! And don't pretend this isn't the opportunity you've been waiting for!"

David moved way to the left, and lined up the paddle a second time, with new determination. He gripped it hard in his right hand, before drawing it way back and up, and sending it flying across Randy's ass.

"KA ----- WHAAAAAACK !!!"

"SHIT!", Randy shouted. Now THAT was a lick!" He slowly rose to his full six-foot-seven-inch height and rubbed his ass with both hands.

"Can YOU do that about 120 more times?"

"I'll try Sheriff. Sorry about that - I ..."

"Don't worry", Randy said, rubbing his butt. "If I can't take it myself, I can't give it to them."

"David let's see one more. I need ten total."

"Sheriff," David pleaded, "I've already given you two licks!"

"That first one didn't count. And this one won't either if it's not hard enough."

David let out a sigh and gripped the paddle in his right hand.

"KA ----- WHAAAAAACK !!!"

It was another scorcher. Randy took it well, with tears in his eyes.

"Okay. You're hired," Randy stammered as his ass absorbed the lick. "Bob?"

"Now look Randy. I don't want to...."

"DAMN IT Bob! I said I need to feel what they're going to feel. Come on. I want to get it over with as much as you do." Randy bent over again, David handed the paddle to Bob.

"TWO LICKS. Let's go!"

Bob had learned from David's example. He stood to the left of Randy's flaming ass, and delivered a strong, fiery, loud swat. It was as hard or harder than David's, but just shy of Woody's.

"KA ---- WHAAAAAAAACK !!!"

Then, about ten seconds later,

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK !!!"

Randy didn't have to say anything. His face said it all. It was red and his eyes full of tears. He slowly stood up and put his hands on his ass in pure agony. His voice was shaky and full of emotion as he finally spoke,

"Okay, Bob. Now that I know you can do it, I better not see you going easy on your cowboys. I swear, if I see you holding back,", sniffing real tears, "I'll pull you out of the line and I'll put Woody in your place!"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Randy spoke with great difficulty, his teeth clenched, his breathing hard. Okay. How many licks is that?"

"You're good, sheriff.", Bob said, still holding the paddle.

"HOW MANY?" Randy demanded.

"That was five, Randy.", Woody solemnly said.

Coach Ryan pleaded, "Randy, don't you think that's enough for these boys? I mean you're obviously in a lot of pain. That's one hell of a lickin"'

Randy looked at him, "FIVE LICKS TO ERASE A FELONY?" This has got to be the worst lickin' they've ever gotten. The pledges can get up to seven licks in a lineup, just for not knowing an active's home town, and remember, all these guys were pledges once. WE'VE GOT TO MAKE IT TEN".

"FUCK. I need five more. Two more from you, Bob, then two from Dave. Woody, you know what you're doing, but you owe me that second lick.

"Come on Randy," Bob pleaded, "we know what you want us to do".

Randy got down in position, and waited for the lick.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

Randy shut his eyes hard, his ass a blaze of fiery pain.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"DAVID, COME ON!"

There was a shuffling of feet, as Bob handed David the paddle.

"KA ---WHAAAAAAAACK!"

The deputy was a quick learner. He did not hold back.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

Randy breathed hard and slowly rose to his full height. His ass was on fire, and tears streamed down his face.

"Alright. Holy FUCK. I need a few minutes to walk these off. Now that I know what these guys are in for, I'm satisfied the punishment is in proportion to the crime. What time is it?"

"6:30," Bob said "They'll be here in thirty minutes."

"I'll be outside. Watch my gun."

Randy went out the back door, and stiffly walked toward Woody's wood shop, which was nicknamed "The Woodshed" because that was where Woody made all the Wrangler paddles each year. He was quite a carpenter, and made all the long, wooden tables and benches that filled the bar room. The tables had simple 4' x 8' double plywood tops and simple legs, and were arranged touching each other, so that twelve or more guys could fit on either side. There were no small tables, you sat wherever you could, and the space easily held all sixty-one Wranglers plus more for meetings. Randy could hear trucks pulling up in the gravel driveway and male conversations starting. Suddenly, with no warning, he vomited near the side of the woodshed, the day's nerves and the trouble the boys were in, catching up with him. He immediately felt better. It was now about 6:50. His voice would still be shaky. The pain was not any less, but he was getting used to it. In his experience, a hard paddling like the one he just took should burn hard for three or four hours, and sting and throb for several more after that. Tomorrow would be hell, not just the surface pain but the deep muscle pain caused when his butt absorbed the impact of the paddle. He had been crying tears and he needed more time. He made his way back inside the back door. The three men were standing at the bar, drinking a beer.

"Woody", he said, "How much for a full bottle of Makers whiskey?"

"I'd say about fifteen dollars, sheriff".

"Okay", he said, opening his wallet and placing thirty dollars into the large honor system money jar on the bar "lets' have two. And some shot glasses." He poured himself a big shot, and tossed it back, wincing as it went down. He placed the bottles and shot glasses behind the bar where he could retrieve them later. There was no easing the pain in his ass, but he was immediately less shaky. He moved over to a table and asked the other men to join him. Randy groaned as he sat on the hard wooden bench, and started rubbing his ass deep into the wooden surface. Both legs jiggled uncontrollably in his boots from pain. He was sweating profusely. He remembered, that despite the common belief that sitting down after a paddling was painful, he knew that sitting actually felt good. Standing up afterwards, was what hurt. His ass just burned no matter what he did. There was no relieving it but time. The grimace on his face said it all.

"Okay," Randy started, "When we open the doors, we let everyone take a seat. I will explain to them what will take place and why. Expect some shock and disbelief, but probably not much. These guys are Wranglers, and they have paddled and been paddled a lot. You know, at the spring picnic, at the end of pledging, the pledges are "welcomed" into the fraternity with a swat from every active and alumni present. My year, I got over fifty swats. Granted, they are not all as hard as what I just got, but some are. Most of the guys feel sorry for these boys and go easy on them, but you have your occasional drunk asshole buddy who wants to swing hard and be remembered. After the Wrangler "welcome", their big brothers fit them with their Wrangler chaps, which are the most coveted item on the university campus. It's the moment all the shit they've been through is building up to. That's why the idea of paddling these guys is the fitting thing to do. Fuck, my ass hurts."

"After I talk to them, I will send them back outside. When we're ready, we'll take them in groups of six, and each one will choose a pocket on the pool table and stand in front of it. I'll have 'em empty their pockets and bend over, and at my signal, Woody will start at the corner pocket, give the first man two licks and then move to the next. When Woody starts to come down the other side of the table, then Bob starts with the first man again. When he comes down the other side, then Dave starts out. The guys are gonna want to get this over with, but take your time and do it right. Finally, I'll set out and deliver my four licks. Woody will have the easiest job, since the guys will not have been hit yet, but I want that first lick to be as hard as possible, and Woody will do it. With each lick, the guys are going to get more and more agitated, scared and uncomfortable, so that when I make my rounds, as you just saw, they are going to be in a hell of a lot of pain. I want my four licks to be the ones they really don't want, but they'll be the ones they remember."

The near silence outside was broken by the sound of Cooper West's yellow Corvette, barreling up the drive and sliding to a stop on the gravel. Cooper's dad owned about fifteen thousand acres in the mountains, and young Cooper wasn't used to being told what to do. He seemed to have it all, looks, confidence, money, girls, and a fast car, when he wasn't driving his revved-up 4x4 pickup, and enjoyed showing it all off.

"It's ten past seven. You guys ready?"

"Yes, sir," they responded in unison. Randy shook each hand. "Woody, Dave, Bob. Okay, Swat Team, let's bust sixty-one butts!"

Randy opened the front door of Woody's where all the Wranglers were assembled on the grass and gravel parking area. What he did not expect, was that Foreman Jeff Mitchell had told the guys to wear their full dress as they did for all meetings: White shirt, Wrangler jeans, brown boots, grey Stetsons and their brown Wrangler chaps. The chaps were given to each member at the spring picnic following the paddle welcome. Since the picnic was in April and it was now May, everyone was an active, and everyone wore their chaps, full leg style, open in the butt and crotch, with the Wrangler "W" branded into the bottom of the right leg.

"Gentlemen, come in and have a seat." Randy solemnly said. Randy was especially intimidating in his starched khaki uniform and Stetson hat. It was clear to the guys that this was not going to be a pleasant meeting as they moved inside and shuffled themselves into the tables and benches. The place quickly filled up, with what Randy assumed was full attendance of sixty one men.

One of the guys went behind the bar and dropped several dollars into the honor jar and reached below for a cold beer. This was a common occurrence, and to Woody's knowledge, had never been abused or taken advantage of. It was, of course, Cooper West.

Randy raised his voice, "Sorry Cooper. The drinking light is not on tonight."

"Okay, Sheriff", he said shrugging his shoulders, withdrawing the money from the jar. Randy and the other men patiently waited as the room filled up and settled down. The hats came off and were scattered across the middle of the tables true cowboy style, brims up. This was an old custom, so that after a gathering, a guy could identify his own hat without having to touch all the others. The cowboys on the side of the tables closest to the front of the room sat backwards on the benches, so that everyone faced front. Everyone was focused on Sheriff Randy Green, or stared at the floor, ashamed for their parts in what they knew this meeting was about. The "Swat Team" men were taken back by the size of the crowd, not to mention the task ahead, and stood behind the bar. Randy used a crude portable microphone that Woody set up which played through the jukebox speaker, the same system that the Wranglers used at their meetings. Randy spoke deliberately and calmly, despite the throbbing fire in his ass from about twenty minutes before. He fought every urge to rub his ass with his free hand.

"ALRIGHT GENTLEMEN. SOME OF YOU MAY NOT KNOW THIS, BUT I AM A WRANGLER MYSELF. I WAS A PLEDGE IN 1974, I WAS A BIG BROTHER IN 1975, I WAS PLEDGE TRAINER in 1976, AND FINALLY I WAS FOREMAN IN 1977. WHO WANTS TO TELL ME WHAT THE WRANGLER MOTTO IS? "

There was some shuffling of boots in the crowd until the question was answered in mumbled unison, "All for One and One for All".

"RIGHT," Randy continued. "IN MY DAY, THAT MEANT THAT WHAT ONE MAN IN THE CLUB DOES, GOOD OR BAD, EVERYONE DOES. IS THAT STILL TRUE?"

The crowd responded with nods and "Yes, Sirs."

"OKAY," he continued, his voice booming through the jukebox. "BY YOUR OWN CODE, AFTER LAST NIGHT'S ACTIONS, EVERY MAN IN THIS ROOM IS A FIRST-DEGREE FELON".

There was dead silence, as that sentence made its full impact on the crowd.

"THE DAMAGE TO THE WATER TOWER EXCEEDED $30,000, AND THAT, GENTLEMEN, MOVED YOU FROM SECOND-DEGREE FELONS TO FIRST-DEGREE FELONS. I CHECKED THE FILES TODAY, AND THE $30,000 FIGURE IS VALIDATED BY THE FACT THAT THE WHOLE FUCKING THING WAS PAINTED LAST YEAR, AND THAT'S WHAT IT COST THE COUNTY. IN ADDITION, YOU PRESENTED THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL KIDS NEXT TO THE TOWER WITH THE WORD "FUCK" THREE TIMES. I CLIMBED THE TOWER MYSELF THIS MORNING AND OVER-PAINTED THOSE WORDS WITH A BUCKET OF YOUR BLUE PAINT. THE PRINCIPAL, MRS. RUIZ, HELD THE CHILDREN INDOORS DURING RECESS UNTIL I RETURNED HER CALL THAT THE WORDS WERE COVERED UP. MY STAFF AND I HAVE BEEN BOMBARDED WITH PHONE CALLS, MOSTLY FROM IRATE MOTHERS AND FATHERS, WANTING TO KNOW WHAT THE HELL I AM GOING TO DO ABOUT IT.

The crowd sat in stunned silence, some of the guys wincing at the words, mostly staring at the floor in shame.

"GENTLEMEN, LET ME TELL YOU WHAT THE CONSEQUENCES ARE. PUNISHMENT FOR A FIRST-DEGREE FELONY IS GUARANTEED JAIL TIME, AND UP TO A $10,000 FINE. HOW MUCH TIME AND HOW MUCH MONEY WOULD DEPEND ON HOW GOOD AND HOW EXPENSIVE YOUR FATHERS' LAWYERS ARE. THESE PENALTIES ARE MANDATORY. THE COUNTY WOULD PROBABLY TRY YOU AS A GROUP, TO CUT DOWN ON COURT FEES. THAT MEANS EVERYBODY INVOLVED IS PUNISHED THE SAME, THOUGH A "NOT GUILTY" VERDICT IS UNLIKELY, DUE TO THE WRANGLER REFERENCES AND BRAND LEFT IN PAINT ON THE WATER TOWER. YOU ESSENTIALLY "SIGNED" YOUR WORK. I REALIZE THAT PROBABLY NOT EVERYBODY IS GUILTY, AND THE LEGAL SYSTEM WILL SORT YOU OUT, BUT UNTIL IT DOES, HERE'S WHAT YOU CAN EXPECT.

IF I INVOLVE THE LEGAL SYSTEM:

ONE. "YOU WILL ALL BE BOOKED AND CHARGED, AND THE PROCESS OF SORTING OUT THOSE WHO WERE INVOLVED FROM THOSE WHO WEREN'T WILL BEGIN IN A PROCESS DRIVEN BY YOUR LAWYERS. WE DO NOT HAVE SUFFICIENT SPACE IN OUR COUNTY JAIL, SO YOU WILL BE JAILED AS FAR AWAY AS EL PASO, LAREDO AND SAN ANTONIO. IN THESE LARGER JAILS, YOU WILL BE HOUSED IN THE GENERAL POPULATION, BUT NOT WITH ANYONE YOU KNOW UNTIL YOU ARE ARRAIGNED, PRESUMABLY SO THAT YOU CANNOT COMPARE STORIES OR CREATE ALIBIS PRIOR TO YOUR COURT HEARINGS".

A look of terror spread across sixty-one faces. Randy was getting the result he wanted.

TWO. "A QUICK REVIEW OF UNIVERSITY POLICY WILL TELL YOU, (AND I QUOTE)": Randy removed a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.

"Any university student who is SUSPECTED of committing a felony offense will be immediately expelled and removed from any participation in classes or events on or off campus, forfeiting any grades or credits earned in the interrupted semester. Upon written proof that such felony charge(s) have been dropped, the student MAY resume admittance the following semester, subject to the approval of the Board of Regents"

"IN OTHER WORDS, YOU'RE ALL EXPELLED".

THREE. "THE RODEO SCHEDULED FOR TWO DAYS FROM NOW WILL BE CANCELLED, AND THE PROCESS OF REFUNDS FOR TICKETS SOLD WILL BEGIN IMMEDIATELY, THAT IS, AS SOON AS YOU ARE OUT OF JAIL ON BAIL. NO MONEY FOR THE ORPHANS."

FOUR. "THE WRANGLER ORGANIZATION WILL BE PERMANENTLY DISBANDED. AFTER ALMOST ONE HUNDRED YEARS. I WILL SEE TO THAT. WE ARE NOT HAVING A GROUP OF FIRST-DEGREE FELONS ASSEMBLING AND ASSOCIATING TOGETHER AS A GROUP IN THIS COUNTY ANYWHERE. THIS IS NOT THE UNIVERSITY TALKING. THIS IS THE COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE YOU ARE MESSING WITH".

FIVE. "COMMUNITY SERVICE. YOU CAN BET ON IT. WHICH YOU'LL HAVE PLENTY OF TIME TO PERFORM SINCE YOU WON'T BE IN SCHOOL ANYMORE. "

Several guys wiped tears as they took in the full extent of their actions.

SIX. . "A PERMANENT CRIMINAL RECORD." Randy stopped briefly as his eyes filled with tears, which he made no effort to hide. He took a few seconds to regain his composure, speaking with great difficulty. "YOU WILL CURSE LAST NIGHT WHENEVER YOU APPLY TO ANOTHER SCHOOL OR APPLY FOR A JOB. I JUST THREW UP OUTSIDE A FEW MINUTES BEFORE CALLING YOU ALL IN. THIS IS A STUPID, FUCKING THING YOU ALL DID, AND COULD RUIN THE REST OF YOUR LIVES".

The solemn silence was interrupted by none other than Cooper West, who stood up and shouted in a loud voice. "Sheriff, you can't prove this! You weren't there. You don't know who did this. You don't have any witnesses."

"Cooper", his voice growing angry but calm, "what do you mean I don't have witnesses? How long do you think it will take before one or more of these guys who is innocent caves and tells what happened and who is guilty?" Cooper turned to the crowd. "Remember the motto guys. "All for One and One For All". Don't rat on your -"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP COOPER!", came a loud voice from the back of the room. The rest of the guys grunted in agreement. Cooper West sat down, without getting any of the support he was looking for. A cowboy Randy did not know rose to his feet in the middle of the room and spoke in a clear but shaky voice.

"Sheriff, is there some alternative? Anything. Please. We made a big mistake", his eyes were wet with tears. "Can we fix it somehow?" The members of the Swat Team glanced at each other. There was a crack in the wall. The moment they had been waiting for. Another voice from the crowd, "Sheriff, you said this is what would happen if you involve the legal system.What if you DON'T involve the legal system.?"

Randy took a long time before carefully answering the question.

"I AM A LAWYER, A SHERIFF AND A WRANGLER. I SPENT THE BETTER PART OF TODAY EXAMINING ALL THE POSSIBILITIES ON SETTLING THIS THING. THERE ARE NOT MANY. YOU JUST HEARD FROM 'RANDY GREEN THE SHERIFF AND LAWYER.' NOW YOU'RE GOING TO HEAR FROM 'RANDY GREEN THE WRANGLER.' ARE YOU GUYS INTERESTED IN DISCUSSING AN ALTERNATIVE PUNISHMENT?"

There was an enthusiastic affirmative response.

"ALRIGHT. HOW DO YOU ALL GOVERN YOURSELVES? There was confused mumbling until someone answered. "I-I guess we don't do much governing, Sir."

'BULLSHIT, RANDY SHOUTED. YOU SURE AS HELL DID BACK IN MY DAY. SO SOMEONE FUCKS UP - WHAT DO THEY GET? ONE OF THESE?" He picked up one of the paddles that were stacked on the pool table behind him. There was dead silence. He continued addressing the group, now holding a paddle.

"I UNDERSTAND THERE ARE SIXTY-ONE OF YOU FELONS OUT THERE. I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW THE IDENTITIES OF THE GUILTY PARTIES FROM THE INNOCENT. ONCE I KNOW THAT INFORMATION, I HAVE TO INVOLVE THE LEGAL SYSTEM. ON THE OTHER HAND, RIGHT NOW I AM SPEAKING TO YOU AS A MEMBER OF YOUR ORGANIZATION. I CHECKED THE FILES TODAY, AND THERE IS AN OLD, LONG FORGOTTEN LAW ON THE COUNTY BOOKS THAT ALLOWS THE USE OF CORPORAL PUNISHMENT IN CERTAIN SITUATIONS. DESTRUCTION OF PUBLIC PROPERTY IS CERTAINLY ONE OF THEM. IT WAS INTENDED FOR TEEN-AGED MALES, BUT I CAN DEFEND IT IN THIS CASE. MY DEPUTIES (YES, I DEPUTIZED THEM TONIGHT) AND I PROPOSE A VOLUNTARY PUNISHMENT OF "TEN LICKS AND ONE DAY OF COMMUNITY SERVICE".

There was a huge sigh of relief from the crowd.

'THERE WILL BE NO LEGAL ACTION. THE LICKS WILL BE DELIVERED HERE, TONIGHT. THE COMMUNITY SERVICE WILL BE TOMORROW, WHEN YOU WILL REPAINT THE WATER TOWER." THE RODEO WILL CONTINUE AS PLANNED. YOU WILL NOT BE EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL. THERE WILL BE NO CRIMINAL RECORD."

The room exploded in approval. Several guys stood up, shouting "YES, SIR!" and "THANK YOU, SHERIFF."

Randy continued,

"NOW. BEFORE YOU AGREE TO THIS, REMEMBER, THIS PUNISHMENT IS COMPLETELY VOLUNTARY. IF YOU WOULD RATHER GO THE LEGAL ROUTE YOU CERTAINLY CAN."

Grady Stewart, who was well-known to Randy, raised his hand and spoke.

"Sheriff, some of these guys had nothing to do with the water tower. I mean, I was there and I'll take my licks, but some of these guys weren't even there."

"I know that, Grady, but as Wranglers you share the blame for the actions of your brothers. Right?"

"Yezzir", Grady replied, in his thick western drawl before continuing.

"Sheriff, we've got a full workday tomorrow at the arena setting up for the rodeo. Can we ..."

"Grady", Randy began, "We're not having a rodeo WITH THAT SHIT ON OUR WATER TOWER!"

"Yezzir", he replied sheepishly, before taking his seat.

Foreman Jeff Miller quieted the room and shouted to the group. "If you volunteer and accept the ten licks and community service as described by Sheriff Green, please stand up."

There was a massive shuffling of chaps and benches across the wooden floor as every man stood up.

"VERY WELL, GENTLEMEN." Randy replied, as they once again took their seats. There was another question from the back of the room. Another young man that Randy did not know.

"Sheriff, what about the girls who were there?"

"OH FUCK! THERE WERE GIRLS THERE?", Randy exclaimed into the mic in disbelief. He hadn't thought of that.

"M-maybe s-so, Sir." he stammered.

Randy consulted the other three members of the swat team for a few minutes, before returning with an answer.

"OK HERE'S HOW THIS IS GOING TO WORK. YOU WILL BE CALLED BACK IN HERE IN GROUPS OF SIX. I WILL ASK IF ANY MAN IN THE GROUP BROUGHT A GIRL TO THE WATER TOWER. YOU WILL BE ANSWERING TO A COUNTY SHERIFF. IF YOU BROUGHT A GIRL, YOU WILL SAY SO. YOU WILL THEN RECEIVE TWO LICKS FOR HER FROM ME. YOU WILL THEN RECEIVE TWO LICKS FROM WOODY, (There was a groan throughout the room). YOU WILL RECEIVE TWO LICKS FROM DEPUTY DAVID KELLER, MOST OF YOU ARE ACQUAINTED WITH DEPUTY KELLER AS HE HAS STOPPED MOST OF YOU FOR SPEEDING. YOU WILL RECEIVE TWO LICKS FROM YOUR COACH BOB RYAN, SINCE IT WAS HIS RODEO THAT YOU ALMOST FUCKED. AND FINALLY, YOU WILL RECEIVE FOUR LICKS FROM ME, FOR A TOTAL OF TEN, OR AN EVEN DOZEN IF YOU BROUGHT A GIRL. I CAN PROMISE YOU, GENTLEMEN, THAT MY DEPUTIES ARE WELL-VERSED ON MY EXPECTATIONS. THIS WILL BE A SERIOUS PUNISHMENT, AND ONE THAT IS FULLY PROPORTIONATE TO THE OTHER ALTERNATIVE."

"BEFORE WE BEGIN, I REPEAT THAT THIS PUNISHMENT IS VOLUNTARY. I AM NOT FORCING ANYONE IN THIS ROOM TO AGREE TO THIS. I ONLY OFFER IT AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE OTHER OPTION FOR THOSE WHO ARE INTERESTED IN SETTLING THIS THING TONIGHT. THEREFORE, IF ANYONE IN THIS ROOM FEELS THAT THIS PUNISHMENT IS UNFAIR, OR UNDESERVED... PLEASE GO OUT THAT DOOR NOW. "

Foreman Jeff stood up and faced the crowd, to see if anyone was interested in bailing, and leaving the others to take the punishment. There were no takers.

"ALRIGHT, GENTLEMEN, YOU HAVE MADE YOUR CHOICE. PLEASE GO OUTSIDE AND LINE UP. OFF THE PORCH, BEGINNING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STEPS. WE WILL CALL YOU IN IN GROUPS."

When the men stood up, the rest of the swat team watched them slowly go out the front door, shuffling heavy boots and chaps, once again struck by how many of them there were. Sixty-one young men. Six hundred and ten swats. How the fuck was this going to work?

Randy looked out the screen door and took in the loose, long line of young men that stretched about two hundred feet down the gravel driveway. The guys were engaged in low-voiced conversations, while some simply stood with their arms crossed dreading the inevitable. Even for a group like The Wranglers who were notorious for their paddling, the prospect of ten licks was a serious punishment, worse even than what they had experienced at the Wrangler picnic, where the licks were of varying severity. They knew what they were about to get. They were nervous, and they needed to be.

Randy kept the screen door shut, but kept the solid door open. He returned to the bar and found the two bottles of bourbon and put them on the bar with four shot glasses. He poured out four shots.

"Deputies, Keller, Ryan and Miller, do your duties". The men had each selected a paddle. Woody and Randy used their own.

The four clinked glasses and downed the shots. Randy moved to the screen door and shouted through it.

"I'LL TAKE THE FIRST GROUP OF SIX!"

There was a nervous shuffling of boots, as the first six climbed the wooden stairs, crossed the porch, and entered the room.

"YOU MEN STOP AT THE BAR, FIND YOUR NAME AND SIGN IN. YOU ARE SIGNING A STATEMENT THAT SAYS YOU VOLUNTARILY CHOOSE THIS PUNISHMENT AND TOMORROW'S COMMUNITY SERVICE AS TOTAL SETTLEMENT OF THE WATER TOWER INCIDENT. THIS IS IN EXCHANGE FOR ANY FUTURE FELONY CHARGE, EXPULSION OR FINE". As the cowboys eagerly signed in, Randy held a Wrangler paddle in his right hand, which he motioned toward the pool table.

"EACH OF YOU MEN CHOOSE A POCKET OF THE POOL TABLE AND STAND IN FRONT OF IT. REMOVE YOUR HATS AND EMPTY YOUR POCKETS."

The hats came off and went to the middle of the pool table as the wallets, handkerchiefs, keys, Cope cans, etc., were emptied into them.

"STEP BACK ABOUT THREE FEET FROM THE TABLE, SPREAD YOUR BOOTS APART, BEND OVER AND GRIP THE EDGE OF THE TABLE. LIKE THIS."

He stepped back and demonstrated the position he wanted, with the paddle tucked under his arm.

The nervous group complied, and settled into still position.

"YOU'RE GONNA GET TEN! YOU'RE GONNA GET TWO FROM WOODY, TWO FROM DEPUTY KELLER, TWO FROM COACH RYAN AND FOUR FROM ME! UNDERSTOOD? YOU WILL STAY IN POSITION UNTIL THE ENTIRE GROUP IS DISMISSED."

"Yes, Sheriff."

"NOW. DID ANY ONE OF YOU BRING A GIRL TO THE WATER TOWER THE OTHER NIGHT?"

One lone young man in this group lifted his hand from the edge of the table. Randy moved to his left. He placed the paddle across his ass and readied his own stance, before drawing it way back and slamming it home.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAAACK!!!"

A few seconds later,

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAAACK !!!"

The hardness of the two heavy swats surprised even him. It had been years since he'd given a lick, but he discovered it was like riding a bike. The other guys watched their buddy's face twist in pain as Randy returned to the bar. You could hear a pin drop outside as the crowd reacted to the first two swats, loud and clear through the screen door.

Randy nodded to Woody, who started down the side of the table. He carefully delivered two of his famous butt busters to the first guy, before moving to the middle pocket. To say that Woody was excited would be an understatement. He had to pretend that he was not enjoying this. The third guy was the one that Randy had given the two licks to a few minutes prior. He was breathing hard with tears in his eyes. Woody could feel his dick starting to stir. Hopefully, his jeans were snug enough to hide it.

"KA ---WHAAAAAAAACK!!!"

"KA---WHAAAAAAAAACK!!!"

The young man fought back tears, with what were swats three and four to him, as Woody moved to the other side and stood beside the guy at the far corner pocket. The guy was a tall, good looking guy that Woody knew well from his days and nights at the bar. He also knew him from the carefully concealed "security" camera that was hidden inside the ancient non-working air freshener atomizer that was perfectly mounted above the long, metal piss trough in the men's room. Concerned about security, Woody had asked two Wranglers a year before to install a couple of cameras behind the bar and over the cash register. He watched them carefully, and privately extended his "security" into the bathroom, pool table, and other areas, where the high quality mini cameras were well-hidden in existing holes, grout and ceiling cracks, where they were completely undetectable, and relayed motion into his desktop computer upstairs. The results were a constant source of voyeuristic entertainment for him.

This young man was a favorite of his, who, like most of the cowboys, completely unfastened his leather belt and Wranglers at the urinal, where Woody could clearly see the nice, relaxed dick emerging from the bush of pubic hair as the strong stream of urine hit the metal wall of the piss trough. There was always the shake of excess drops afterwards, before the process of tucking, buttoning, zipping and buckling reversed itself. The back view at the urinal was also preserved, by the perfect placement of a camera in a self-made crack in the opposite wall, where Woody could fully appreciate and revisit the perfect Wrangler butts that frequented the trough. He would relive these moments again and again in living color and high definition sound, in the privacy of his upstairs apartment, as he would sip whisky, smoke cigars and stroke his dick late into the night.

Earlier in the day, Woody had hastily refocused his two barroom security cameras on one side and one end of the pool table, inside their dark round covers in the ceiling, allowing him to completely document this incredible event. He was especially excited about the unexpected treat of Sheriff Randy Green's hard set of licks, and his part in it.

Woody focused his eyes on the familiar, classic Wrangler butt that he had spent so much time appreciating upstairs as he readied his paddle. "Shame to hit such a nice butt", he thought,

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK !!!"

as he delivered a butt buster to start the cowboy's night off right.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK !!!"

It was as good a swat as he could deliver, to be reviewed later. It left the poor cowboy grimacing and breathing hard.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK !!!"

The hard swat he heard a second after his was the first one delivered by Coach Bob Ryan, who had begun his painful journey as soon as Woody turned the corner.

Randy had worried that Coach Ryan would sympathize with his players, especially so close to the rodeo. He was wise to have him follow Woody, as a constant example and reminder of what was expected of him. After Coach Ryan left the last man with two hard, wooden slaps across the ass, Deputy Keller set out, delivering swats five and six to the shaky, red-faced guys. There was the wince-inducing sound of overlapping swats, as a few of the guys outside covered their ears as the non-stop sound of wood swung hard across their buddies' butts filled the air. Not much conversation out there, other than the occasional "Fuck!" or "Oh shit", whispered with closed eyes, after an exceptionally good, loud one.

Randy's journey around the table was a little different than the first three. The boys had by then received at least six, hard swats, and were panicky and in a lot of pain. The wait between swats was agonizing, allowing each man to fully appreciate each one. Not an undesirable effect, but one that was made much worse by the guys hearing the swats and cries of pain around them. Randy was confronted by panic, sometimes crying and a lot of shaky legs. Despite coming up with the plan himself, it was difficult for him to deliberately hurt these guys, but he knew he had to do it. He did show the only compassion he could by getting it over quickly, delivering his four swats quicker than he had planned. They were no less hard, just not so much anticipation between them. His own ass was still on fire.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!!!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!!!"

"CALM DOWN. GET BACK DOWN"!

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!!!"

"BACK DOWN. COME ON, SON"!

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!!!"

This was heard loud and clear outside, as the sound of overlapping swats filled the air, then slowly subsided as Deputy Keller completed his trip around the table and Randy finished his. The first round of sixty swats (in this case sixty-two) was over.

"Alright, gentlemen. you may stand up and collect your things." He moved behind the bar, rinsed the four shot glasses and pulled down two more. He poured out six shots. "Help yourselves to a shot of whiskey and take your seats back at the tables."

The slow-moving group held their hats in their hands and formed a loose line, stopping to shake the hands of each member of the Swat Team, some of them wiping tears on their sleeves. There were one or two "Thank you, Sheriffs", before the guys downed their shots, wiping the glasses with a dish towel in preparation for the next group.

The entire process of delivering the first round of sixty swats had taken an agonizing full fifteen minutes, averaging just four swats a minute. At that rate, it would take over two hours to deliver 610 swats. The men decided that without sacrificing quality, they would try to operate a little more efficiently.

Randy went over and hollered out the screen door, "WE'RE READY FOR THE NEXT GROUP OF SIX!"

The painful procedure was repeated, this time with three hands raised by cowboys who had brought girls, who received two extra swats from Randy. Randy knew several of the boys in this group, specifically, his godson, Justin Phelps. Justy was the son of his best friend, neighbor and pastor, Jimmy Phelps. Randy had not known Jimmy all his life, but they developed a deep friendship as neighbors, and Randy credited Jimmy for his return to church. When Justy was twelve years old, his dad developed a fast advancing form of cancer and died quickly after the diagnosis, leaving his wife, Joyce, to raise Justy alone. When Jimmy asked Randy to watch over Justy for him, little did Randy know that he would grow to love him as though he was his own son. As the father of two older girls, Randy had a third shot at fatherhood, to finish what his best friend had started, with the son he always wanted. Justin seemed to have it all; incredible looks, easy confidence that came naturally to him, and a protective instinct for his mother. He was tall and handsome with sandy-red hair and blue eyes, a true gentleman, and a cowboy all the way.

Justy chose the last pocket on the table, making him the last one to be licked. Next to him was his best friend, Grady, who had spoken from the crowd earlier, a steer wrestler, who Randy knew well also. Randy was surprised that Grady had brought a girl to the tower, and gently squeezed his shoulder before giving him two hard licks for it. Despite his strong build, Grady hated getting his ass beat. He never joined in some of the poker games at Woody's where the low hand got a lick from Woody, and he never accepted a challenge to trade licks from a pledge or another active. He hated the paddle, especially after his Wrangler welcome at the picnic two years earlier, when a low, drunken swat caught the backs of his balls, resulting in fever, chills and vomiting, in addition to a busted ass.

Randy followed the others around the table, and Grady was in some real distress when Randy made it to him. After taking eight swats, he was shaky and unable to keep position. Randy once again squeezed his shoulder,

"Grady, calm down, son. It'll be over quick but you've got to stay in position. Flinching will only make it worse for you."

"I-I'm sorry, Sheriff -- I-I can't stand it, S-sir". I can't take f-four more swats!" he stammered, through tears.

"Grady, let's get this over with". Randy guided him back into position, and took his own.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"Back down. Back down, son."

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"GRADY ...."

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

Randy got the last one in before Grady shot up like a rocket, his hands flying to his blazing ass as he sobbed hard. The other men had finished delivering their swats, with just Randy left, to swat Justy. He had been dreading this one all day.

"Justy", he thought, "I know you didn't have anything to do with this."

His mind flashed back to two years prior, when Randy was in a sling after shoulder surgery, Justy mowed his yard every week along with his. That same summer, a storm knocked down the tree between the two driveways. Justy came out with a chainsaw early in the morning and cleared both driveways so his mom and Sandy could get to school and Randy could get to the courthouse. Later, when they got home, Justy had supplied both houses with neatly stacked firewood. He stood by his mother during her rounds of chemo, and somehow kept up with school and a part-time job at the veterinary clinic. Randy snapped back to the painful task at hand.

Justy stood still, with six heavy licks burning on his butt. He was upset by Grady's experience, and was more concerned about Grady than himself. Randy gently grabbed the back of his neck and leaned down to talk into his right ear.

"Justy, you know I've got to give you these licks."

Justy responded with a quick nod of his head. "I know, Sheriff."

It was strange hearing him call him "Sheriff". He always called him "Randy", and Randy realized that the title "sheriff" meant that Justy knew he was doing his duty as sheriff, not his friend and godfather. Justy's starched Wrangler butt was framed by his leather chaps, which fastened tight around his thighs. His Cope can was removed, but the white ring was clear on his left back pocket, like so many of the guys. Justy didn't chew, of course. He used his can to carry his chili petines - strong, hot chili peppers, which he grew in his back yard. He ground them into flakes and sprinkled them on just about everything he ate, especially Mexican food. He happily shared them with anyone he ate with, even Randy on many occasions.

Randy fought back tears, but stepped back and did his duty. The four swats were hard and did not show favoritism. Afterward, Justy stood up stiffly, his own eyes thick with tears.

"Alright gentlemen, you may stand up and join the others at the tables. You men stop at the bar and pour yourselves a shot of whiskey if you want." Once again, the line of cowboys shook the hands of the men who had paddled them, with Justy pausing and forcing a weak smile at the sight of the tears in Randy's eyes.

"NEXT SIX!" Randy shouted through the screen door.

The process was repeated eight more times, as the line outside the door grew smaller and the painful group inside grew larger. There was not much talking; a lot of the guys held their heads in their hands or stared down at the floor, wincing at the sound of wood swung hard across the butts of their friends. As the inside group increased, so did the smell of bourbon, breathed out hard in painful gasps between clenched teeth. Legs in heavy chaps jiggled in pain as the cowboys ground their fiery butts into the hard wooden benches. The barrage of swats continued.

The fourth group of six contained none other than the great Cooper West, making light of the situation in front of his audience.

"Howdy gents," he quipped, "am I too late for the 'This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you speech?" Randy stared at him dead on.

"No, Cooper," he squinted, "It's going to hurt you a lot more." Cooper strutted toward the first spot, emptied his pockets and bent over, spreading his boots extra wide in a display of bravado. Randy's and Woody's eyes met briefly in a silent communication before Woody started out. That first lick from Woody across Cooper's ass was later described by the four men as the "lick of the night", with all four men admitting to adding a little something extra to Cooper's licks.

Randy recalled what went through his mind as he prepared to add four swats to the quivering ass before him. Of course, Cooper had brought a girl, so Randy's four would make an even dozen.

"As if I didn't know who was behind this whole thing. This has your signature all over it. Why do bad guys like this piece of shit bring down the good ones? Guys like Justy Phelps and Grady Stewart. And everyone else who's taking the blame for your actions. Sure, your dad owns half the county, and half these guys will probably end of working for your sorry ass. Enjoy the next three hours you arrogant little prick."

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"BACK DOWN!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!"

Cooper couldn't hide the tears or the flushed red face as he made his way to the bar and finally settled his blazing ass down on one of the benches.

The next group filed in and took their places. In this group was one young man, a handsome Hispanic cowboy named Miguel, who Randy knew was Grady's roommate and also a good friend of Justy's. He was in the last position (pocket number six) and was already crying hard. He winced as the licks began and started shaking as they got nearer to him. He shouted out on the first two licks from Woody, and Coach Ryan seemed worried about him when it came time to lick him. He leaned down to ask him something, and the young man nodded nervously. Coach Ryan took his stance and gave him his two licks, followed by Deputy Dave. As Randy approached him, he was crying uncontrollably, dripping tears and drool on the green velvet table, and breathing in heavy gasps. Randy leaned down and spoke to him softly.

"Miguel, are you alright?" Randy could not understand him through his sobs. Coach Ryan jumped in protectively . "I think Miguel has had enough, Sheriff." A cowboy from across the table spoke through clenched teeth. "He got real nervous outside hearing the licks."

Randy nodded and spoke to the group of solemn cowboys who were seated at the tables. "A couple of you guys walk him over to the bar and get him calmed down." Then, turning his attention to the quivering group at the pool table, "The rest of you may collect your things and join the others." Miguel refused the whisky, and took several minutes to get calmed down. Just before Randy called in the next group, one of the guys taking care of him said, "Sheriff, Miguel says he's ready to take his licks." Randy solemnly nodded, and returned to his position at the table as Miguel assumed his position at the corner pocket. "Sheriff, I think..." Coach Ryan insisted. Randy interrupted him in a low but stern voice. "Bob, he doesn't want to be different." He turned his attention to Miguel, talking in a low, calm voice.

"Miguel, you know we need to finish this, son. Nothing's going to happen until you're ready. It'll be over quick." About ten seconds went by before Miguel braced himself and said, in a loud voice,

"I'm ready, Sheriff."

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

The licks were no less hard, so that Miguel would never feel that he failed to take what the others took. Miguel shook Randy's hand, and walked stiffly over to the bar and this time took a shot of whisky before joining the others on the hard wooden benches.

"NEXT SIX!" Randy shouted, without explaining the delay followed by the lone four licks. He looked at the shorter line out the door. Low conversation was starting in the meeting room, as the cowboys got more and more used to their condition. But each time a new group approached the pool table, the room would grow quiet.

The last man in the line was Foreman Jeff Miller, who took his place at the final pocket. Like one other in the group, Jeff had brought a girl to the tower and took two licks from Randy for her. The final sixty licks proceeded in the same way as the nearly six hundred before it. Randy was feeling an ache in his right shoulder, the one he had rotator cuff surgery on two years before. He and the other men were weary, sweaty and ready for this to be over. Randy and Deputy Dave had large sweat stains under their right arms. Finally, Randy stood behind and to the left of Foreman Jeff Miller, to deliver his last licks of the night.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

The four blistering swats on Jeff's butt completed his dozen. Randy addressed the table, "You men may rise, collect your belongings and leave the table. Foreman Miller, get back down."

Jeff got back into position as Randy shouted to the group, waving the paddle.

"This is from one Foreman to another. You could have stopped this. Instead, you participated in it."

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAAAAACK!"

The final three swats made fifteen total for Jeff. He waited a long while before slowly standing up and shaking Randy's hand. He proceeded to the bar where a buddy had poured him a shot from now the fourth bottle of whisky. Woody hung his paddle back on the wall, the others placed theirs on the bar. Randy had used his own, and was careful to place it where he would remember it later. Randy prepared to address the room.

"Gentlemen...."

"Hold it Sheriff!, Coach Ryan interrupted. He paused a few moments before speaking. "These are my boys and this happened on my watch" He waited a few seconds, preparing for the full impact of what he was about to say. "I get what they got." Looking at Randy, "The same."

The room was in stunned silence as Bob approached the pool table, emptied the pockets of his Wrangler jeans and bent over.

"Are you sure about this Bob?", Randy asked him? Coach Ryan nodded.

"Bob, we're a little short handed without you. Do you want to pick one of your cowboys to take your place on the Swat Team?" The guys chuckled lightly at the name. Bob Ryan looked out into the room. "You guys choose someone among yourselves. Quick."

Despite Cooper West's insistence that he was the man for the job, the group decided on a bull rider, who reluctantly accepted the job.

"Coach, we chose Brian Burnet", came a voice from the crowd. Bob nodded his approval. Brian approached the other men, and Deputy Dave handed him the paddle Bob Ryan had used.

"C-coach, I-I don't wa...", Brian began.

"I know Brian. I didn't want to bust your ass either. But I did it."

"Yezzir", Brian drawled.

The shock of Woody' first two licks was painfully clear on Bob's face. Brian nervously approached him, and delivered two hard swats, showing no sympathy in his ability. He swatted him like he knew how to, but turned away afterwards, not wanting to watch him get the rest of his licks. When it came time for Randy, he squeezed Bob's shoulder as a show of support. Randy feared that Bob was close to breaking under the excruciating pain. He gave him a minute and talked into his right ear. "Bob, your men are proud of you. You can do this." He did not give Bob much of a rest.

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

"KA --- WHAAAAAAAACK!"

Bob stood up, snorting tears and walked stiffly to the bar where a double shot was waiting for him. He would later say that he had not felt a paddle in twenty years. The room grew quiet as Randy again took the crude microphone which sent his voice booming from the jukebox.

"Gentlemen", he waited a long time, "I guess this would not be a good time to ask for your votes in November." The group mustered a painful laugh as he continued. "As far as the County is concerned, this incident is now closed, or soon will be, as soon as the water tower is painted tomorrow. I can assure you that there are no hard feelings on my part, and I hope that you can soon say the same. Foreman Jeff, will you come up here a minute?"

Jeff stood up painfully, shamelessly wiping tears, and consulted with Randy a couple of minutes. Realistically, sixty one men could not paint a water tower. They decided to split the group into two groups. Jeff turned and addressed the men. His voice quivered in pain as he spoke into the mic.

"Freshmen and Juniors, report to Coach Ryan at the rodeo arena at 8:00 tomorrow morning. Sophomores and Seniors, report to Sheriff Green at the water tower at 8:00. Lunch is at noon at the water tower, then the groups switch locations."

Randy took the mic. "You guys should know that Woody closed his place on a Friday night so that we could have this little "board meeting". I want each of you to put ten dollars in the honor jar to cover his night. If you don't have it tonight, put it in next time until you've reached your ten. One dollar per swat. If you got twelve swats tonight, you owe twelve."

"Woody?" Randy asked, "Will that cover you for tonight?"

"Too much. Way to much", Woody replied. He had discretely shifted his hard, wet dick from right to left behind the bar, as he could feel the precum leaking through the crotch of his Wranglers.

"Well, you do a lot for this club. We'll consider that their "fine'".

Randy continued, "I want everyone to show up on time, sober and ready to work. Wear work clothes, not your fancy jeans and boots. And wear a hat. Don't end up my age and wish you had. Get a good night's sleep", there was a group laugh on that last remark, "or try to anyway. See you in the morning."

After the room cleared and the men finished the last of the bourbon, they talked about the experience. Deputy Dave opened the conversation. "How many times have I stopped that little prick in that fucking Corvette? He once tried to outrun me going over 100, but he and his daddy got that ticket fixed same as all the others. Tonight was a real pleasure".

Coach Ryan commented, "He's an arrogant little shit. He's the worst rider on the team, but thinks he's the best. I'm glad I'm not him right now. I guarantee you he's the one behind this shit."

Bob Ryan raised and lowered his blazing ass on the hard bench. "Damn those licks hurt. Seriously, how are these guys going to rodeo Sunday?"

"Bob, they're young.", Randy began. "They'll bounce back."

Randy was looking over the list and the signatures. "We had two no-shows."

"Oh,", Bob said. "We have so much livestock brought in for the rodeo, we have to watch them twenty-four hours a day. I gave those two guys barn duty."

"Okay," Randy replied. "We'll catch up with them after the rodeo".

"I'd appreciate that, Randy", Bob winced. "They're both saddle bronc riders."

Randy smirked at that remark, but winced as soon as he moved his shoulder.

The four men finished the last of the bourbon and left Woody to turn out the lights. Randy retrieved his paddle, the same one he had used as Pledge Trainer over twenty five years before. Woody took a full bottle upstairs and settled in for a long, late night of reliving the night's incredible events on his desk computer, in living color and high-def, stereophonic sound, from different angles and locations.