"Puke," said Rizzo, whose visible tattoo was of a big- breasted naked woman named Tiny.

"I gotta get some air," agreed his buddy, Buzz Shiftier.

"Tommy, I think we should be smart and get out of here as fast as we can," Brazil suggested quietly, and with authority.

"I made a mistake and I apologize, okay. I shouldn't have come over and we shouldn't be here. I was in a mood and took it out on you. Now we're going to make tracks or die."

"So you do hate me." Axel was into his crushed, you have-deeply-wounded-me routine.

"Then you stay here." Brazil stood.

"I'm pulling your car up to the front porch, and you're going to jump in. Got it?" He thought of West again, and anger returned.

Brazil was looking around, as if expecting a gunfight any moment, and ready for one, but aware of his limitations. There were rednecks everywhere, all drinking beer, eating fried fish with tartar and cocktail sauces, and ketchup. They were staring at Axel and Brazil.

Axel saw the wisdom in Brazil getting the car by himself.

"I'll pay the bill while you do that," Axel said.

"Dinner's my treat."

Brazil was completely cognizant of the fact that the two big boys in coveralls were this very second out in the dark parking lot, waiting for the two queers. Brazil wasn't especially concerned by their erroneous impression of him and the choices he made in life, but he was not interested in having the shit beat out of him. He thought fast, and tracked down the hostess in the raw bar, where she was parked at a table, smoking and writing tomorrow's specials on a chalk board.

"Ma'am," he said to her.

"I wonder if you could help me with a serious problem."

She looked skeptically at him, her demeanor changing somewhat. Guys said similar words to her every night after they'd been through buckets of beer. The problem was always the same thing, and so easy to remedy if she didn't mind slipping off behind the restaurant for maybe ten minutes and dropping her jeans.

"What." She continued writing, ignoring the jerk.

"I need a pin," he said.

"A what?" She looked up at him.

"You mean, something to write with?"

"No, ma'am. I mean a pin, a needle, and something to sterilize it with," he told her.

"What for?" She frowned, opening her fat vinyl pocketbook.

"A splinter."

"Oh!" Now that she understood.

"Don'cha hate it when that happens?

This place is full of 'em, too. Here you go, sugar. "

She fished out a small sewing kit in a clear plastic box that she'd gotten from the last hotel some rich guy took her to, and she slid out a needle. She handed him a bottle of nail polish remover. He dipped the needle in acetone, and bravely retreated to the porch. Sure enough, the two thugs were prowling near cars, waiting. They lurched in his direction when they spotted him, and he quickly stabbed his left index finger with the needle. He stabbed his right index finger and thumb. Brazil squeezed out as much blood as he could, and smeared in on his face, which he then held in his hands, as if he were reeling.

"Oh God," he moaned, staggering down steps.

"Jesus." He fell against the porch railing, groaning, holding his disgusting, gory face.

"Shit." Rizzo had gotten to him, and was completely taken aback.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

"My cousin in there," Brazil weakly said.

"You talking about that fag you was sitting with?" asked Shifflet.

Brazil nodded.

"Yeah, man. He's fucking got AIDS, and he threw up blood on me! You believe that! Oh God."

He staggered down another step. Shiftier and Rizzo moved out of the way.

"It went in my eyes and mouth! You know what that means! Where's a hospital around here, man? I got to get to the hospital! Could you drive me, please?"

Brazil staggered and almost stumbled into them. Shifflet and Rizzo ran. They leapt into their Nissan Hard Body XE with its four-foot-lift oversized tires that spun rocks.