Slim

“Boy, I just caint understand why you persist in drinkin’ that skonk piss. Don’t you know that beer comes in a brown bottle?”
“Come on, Rafe, just cuz I’m your little brother don’t mean you kin tell me what to do an’ all. Besides this aint no skonk piss, this here is gore-may beer, just like what’s-‘is-name, that there Darjeeling feller drinks, and besides, I’ve taken a likin’ to the taste.”
Rafe Garcia hooked his thumbs into the straps of his Carharts, leaned his head back and a bit to the right and sent a projectile of tobacco juice directly at Slim. The perfectly aimed torpedo hit the back rim of the squat, green bottle and slid down the side onto the surface of the beer.
“That’ll teach ya ta talk back ta me, will ya. Now git on ta yer chores.”
Slim new better than to challenge big brother Rafe. He’d done it before and always come out on the shit end of the stick. He new better, but it didn’t matter. Slim drove his head straight into Rafe’s gut. This didn’t faze Rafe one bit as he absorbed the head-butt by moving backward with the force of the blow and wrapping his arms around Slim’s torso. With a quick flip, he sent Slim flying through the air. Slim landed about ten feet away still holding onto the soured green bottle of beer. He took aim at Rafe and threw the bottle right at his head. Rafe placed his left foot behind him, settling his weight into his left leg while simultaneously raising his right hand and moving his left hand to rest at his left side. He deftly caught the green missile and, giving Slim a one-eyed squint, raised the bottle to his lips and tipped it skyward. Dribbles of brownish green beer ran out around the corners of his mouth and onto his overalls.
Slim picked up the nearest dried up cow-pie and frisbeed it at Rafe’s head. Rafe jumped into the air, meeting it with his right foot while scissor-kicking with his left. The explosive kick sent cow manure particles flying into Slim’s face, temporarily blinding him. He heard Rafe’s advance. Dodging and rolling in the Kansas dust, Slim felt the ground shake as Rafe stomped after him.
Whomp! Rafe’s number 11 boot came down. Whomp! Slim rolled onto his right side then onto his back, completing a back round-off and landing on his feet. Able to see again, he quickly turned and started running toward the barn, knowing that, even though Rafe could best him in a fist fight, he could never outrun him. He never looked back. As he made the door of the Morgan building, he heard the crash of the bottle above his head. Green glass showered around him as he sought out a hiding place. He knew Rafe wouldn’t come after him in the sanctuary of the barn, but he hid behind the John Deere 420 anyway, hoping the dogs wouldn’t give him away should Rafe be really mad and intent on settling this matter. It was getting to be sundown and Slim knew that soon, Rafe would be going into town. He settled back onto the brome grass hay bales watching the shadows near the doorway just in case.