By Fus Yvhikv

“How would you guys like to see Gov. Bullstitt get vetoed?” Fixico asks.

“Yes!” me, Tarpalechee, and Yahola say.

“What’s the plan?” I ask.

Fixico slurps a huge dollop of his Hamm’s beer.

“Braaaapppp!” Fixico belches a thunderous burp as he cranes his chin toward the ceiling for theatrical effect. The bar patrons are startled into a deafening silence. Fixico grins as if he has just won the 50/50.

Harjo, the rotund proprietor of the Rez Bar appears. He is dressed in his uniform of a white dress shirt, bow tie, and catsup-and-mustard-stained white apron. Black arm garters adorn his fleshy upper arms.

“That was an 8.0 on the Richter scale,” Harjo says as he wipes his perpetually sweaty bald head. “Another Hamms, Fixico?”

“While I’m still young,” Fixico says. “How about you straighten up this pig sty. I’m about to meet some dignitaries.”

“You mean your probation officer?” Harjo replies.

“Goot Won!” I say as me, Yahola, and Tarpalechee guffaw.

“Just bring me that slop you call beer,” Fixico says.

“I’ll spit in it to add flavor,” Harjo says.

“That’s the only thing that makes it quaffable,” Fixico replies.

Harjo disappears with surprising alacrity for such a big man. He relishes spitting in Fixico’s beer.

“Who are these alleged dignitaries you are meeting with? And why at the Rez Bar?” I ask.

“I’m meeting with the Senate Majority Leader and the Speaker of the House. We are going to pull an end run on Gov. Bullstitt. This is all hush hush for now so keep it on the QT.”

“That’s going to take some ‘splainin’.”

“I’ve been discreetly hired by the Oklahoma tribes to lobby the legislature to pass a bill that will extend the tribal compacts on motor vehicle registrations and the tribal tobacco taxes.”

“Ah, you are working undercover. That explains the black trench coat, black fedora and dark sunglasses. Straight out of central casting. But why you?”

“I’m one persuasive dude.”

“Bullstitt doesn’t know about this?”

“We are going to ambush him like he did the tribes on the gaming compacts.”

Me and Fixico exchange a high five.

“YESSSS!” I exclaim. “But why meet at the Rez Bar?”

“Because it is the last place you’d expect to find the Senate Majority Leader and the Speaker of the House.”

“True. Unless they are looking for a good old fashioned bar fight!”

Two men walk in. They don’t resemble dignitaries. More like gray haired frat boys out of their element. Fixico motions them over. I depart as the men arrive. Harjo serves up a round of his lukewarm, watered-down beer.

Three weeks later, me, Tarpalechee, Yahola, and Fixico are choking down another round of Harjo’s beer. Gov. Bullstitt appears on the TV screen.

“Turn it up!” Fixico orders Harjo.

Harjo waddles over to the remote as he shoots an icy stare at Fixico.

“While I’m still young Big Man.”

“I’m shocked and dismayed at this illegal action of the Oklahoma Legislature. In fact, I am blindsided by it. Nobody consulted me beforehand. So much for cooperation,” Gov. Bullstitt tearfully complains.

Me and the boys howl with peels of laughter.

“How does it feel Bullstitt?” Yahola screams.

Gov. Bullstitt wipes away tears. His voice quivers.

“I cannot understand the legislature did this to me,” Bullstitt moans. “They cannot unilaterally extend the motor vehicle and tobacco tax compacts. I assure you I will veto this bill.”

“The leaders of the legislature have gone on record saying they will override your veto. And they have the votes,” a reporter interjects.

Bullstitt’s lips quiver. Large tears well up in his eyes. He wipes away the tears with his shirt sleeve then covers his face with both hands. His upper body convulses with grief.

“I, I…I..ahem!” Bullstitt spits out. “What have I done to deserve this? I’m melting!” he laments.

“What have you done?” Fixico asks as he flings a beer can at the TV. “You did the same thing to the tribes on the gaming compacts by unilaterally declaring that they expired in 2019. Then you lost in court!”

“And cost us Oklahoma taxpayers millions of dollars in lawyer’s fees,” I add.

Gov. Bullstitt slowly shuffles off stage with bowed head. He is sucking his right thumb as he pulls a small toy truck on a string behind him.

Me and the boys hoist our warm beers for a victory toast.

“Here’s to vetoing Bullstitt. And to karma,” Fixico says.

“Afvcketv!” We all reply.