It's a late Tuesday evening, and there's a vague apocalyptic feeling to this place, which hunkers on the edge of the cane fields. It's on the edge of nowhere. It invites disconnection. An over-the-hill cowboy, dressed in white hat, spangled belt and jeans, is massacring a George Jones song at the karaoke machine. He's in full beer-weave, and his voice sounds like he flossed his throat with barbed wire. A winsome blond watches with her man at a nearby table. She slips her hand up the back of his shirt. He does likewise to her. They sip whiskey Cokes with their free hands. It's men's night, as it always is on Tuesdays, which means two-for-one mixed drinks, $1 drafts, and $5 pitchers all night long (maybe you should think about sleeping in the car tonight and avoiding that long, bleary drive home). But then, it's almost always happy hour at Boonies, with the same deal seven days a week from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. And just for good measure, it's ladies' night on Mondays. "We're from the country, and we like it that way," sings a chubby, short guy now at the mic. The drunk cowboy has staggered back to the bar, tweaking the barmaid's bottom along the way. "He stopped lovin' her... today," he croaks. He burps loudly, then fetches a healthy pinch of snuff from his tin. Time stands still.
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