Free Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) by T.J. Purcell

scene: ‘I'm hungry,’ they'd say. ‘Will you buy something so we can get the hell out of here.’”
    “Men, we need to reclaim our inner fathers. We need to use fewer adjectives and more verbs. We need to talk on the telephone less and nap on the couch more. The garage is our special place, and it's nobody's business how messy it is. The barbecue, too, is ours alone and no child or woman is permitted near it.
    “We need to drink more liquor, eat more beef and cuss more. We need to spend more time with our sons in front of bonfires, singing camp songs and talking about sports. In dealing with our sons, we must be more rigid in our discipline with them as our fathers were with us. In dealing with the women in our lives, we must stop cowering and stand up for ourselves. It is what our sons and our wives really want. Now let’s eat.”
    The men jumped to the feet applauding and laughing.
    The old man, finished for now, walked over to a buffet table that was complete with hamburgers, steaks, barbecued chicken and pork. He was surrounded by his admirers, who also began digging into the food. Clive was making himself a pork barbecue sandwich as I approached him.
    “That was a fine speech,” I said to him.
    He looked up from the buffet with both hands now on his man-sized sandwich.
    “It’s a speech that few men have the guts to give in these politically correct times,” he said. “Men need to be men and women need to be women and that is our message here tonight.”
    Clive was a big man — big boned more than he was tall. He took a man-sized bite of his sandwich, then cracked open a 16 oz. can of Iron City Beer and took a good swallow. He offered me some food and beer, which I accepted. 
    “You strike me as a man who quickly cuts to the heart of any matter, so let me oblige you,” I said. “What do you know about John Preston?”
    He chewed his sandwich for a good long while, then took a hearty swig of beer. He looked me hard in the eyes and I saw suddenly a great intensity in his — two black burning pieces of coal.
    “Here is how we met,” he said. “John found himself the unfortunate guest of a party at which I was also invited. I told the little bastard he was a large symptom of the movement to neuter men. He was the willing puppet of a feminist manifesto run amuck. And he needed to change.”
    “How did he respond?”
    “He surprised me. He turned out to be a feisty little guy. He was small, but he didn't back down for a moment. In fact, he challenged me to debate, and debate we did.”
    “You met with him?”
    “Sure, we met for dinner two or three times. This is going back three or four years now. And the conversations became so spirited, I admit I began taking a liking to the little fellow. I even began to respect him. In fact, I think he was coming around to my point of view.”
    “You’re suggesting Preston was beginning to agree with you?”
    “I don’t suggest,” said Clive. “I tell it like it is. John came to agree that for the last 30 years, in an effort to please our women, men have lost their mooring as men. He agreed that it was necessary to reestablish the masculine nature of men — even if that required that the gruff and violent nature in every man must be re-explored. These days, many men need to exaggerate these once primal and basic male behaviors to breathe life and restore equilibrium into their maleness.”
    “But there is no evidence in his writings, speeches or television appearances that he held such thoughts,” I said. 
    “Either it happened to John or I’m a liar, and if you’re calling me a liar then we will need to settle that right here,” he said putting down his plates and unbuttoning his sleeves.
    Ordinarily I might laugh if a man that old challenged me to a fight, but I had a moment when I wasn't sure I could take him.
    “It would do my reputation a great deal of harm to get whooped by a man of your age,” I said, smiling.
    He smiled back. 
    “I know