“Hell,” I said, starting the engine. “We’re all champs when we’re drunk.” 

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

The bastard is already 33½ years old with a head full of Sandoz acid, a loaded .357 Magnum in his belt, a hatchet-wielding Chicano bodyguard on his elbow at all times, and a disconcerting habit of projectile vomiting geysers of pure blood off the front porch every 30 or 40 minutes, or whenever his malignant ulcer can’t handle any more raw tequila.

Wait ‘till you see those goddamn bats.