What I was trying to say, there's this color boy who wants to play football for Bear Bryant over at Alabama.

So Bear says, I'm going to give you a try.

Calls up the newspaper.

What's it going to run with, a watermelon?

It's going to keep on running, too.

He says, okay, boy, you get down there on one goal line.

He puts a whole other team on the other goal line, a whole other team.

He throws the ball.

He says.

Are you open?

You've got to be a member to drink here.

Member?

A member of what?

A member of the social club.

I thought you'd just buy me a beer.

Give him a beer, Frank.

Nice to be back in the dry county again.

When I was sheriff, about half of my take-home pay was from collecting taxes on illegal jukes like this.

Probably works the same here.

You know, I would think you'd haul in a tidy penny here, winking at the bootleggers.

I don't know nothing about that.

Thank you.

Yeah, a tidy penny.

You got anything stronger than this, deputy?

No.

No, we ain't.

Oh.

You know, in Thornton, Mississippi, there's a joy juice still in every yard.

Yeah, well, all you need is just some corn, sugar, and a pot to boil it in.

I tried to take the fingerprints of this old boy one time, and he'd had his hand in a mash barrel all his life.

You know, there's no skin at all on there.

There's no prints.

We ain't too interested in your good old Mississippi boy stories, Anderson.

You ain't from here no more.

Why'd you leave anyway?

Well, I just wanted to change the scenery, you know.

The grits started leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

Well, if that's how you feel about it, Mr. FBI man, why don't you drink up that beer and get the hell on out of here and back to your commie nigger-loving bosses up north?

You must not know my boss, Mr. Hoover.

He's not too fond of commies.

He'd be on your side there.

I don't give two shits whose side you're Mr. Hoover's on, boy.

All I know is we got 5,000 niggers in this county who ain't registered to vote yet.

And as far as I'm concerned, they never will.

So you can tell your stiff suits up there in Washington, D.C., that they ain't going to change us one bit, unless it's over my dead body or a lot of dead niggers.

You'd kill Frank?

Is that what you're saying?

I wouldn't give it no more thought than wringing a cat's neck.

And there ain't a court in Mississippi that'd convict me for it.

How about you, deputy?

How you with wringing necks, son?

Just keep pushing me, Hoover boy.

You get this straight, you corny old fucker.

You tell your queer-ass nigger bosses up north they ain't never gonna find them civil rightsers down here.

So you might as well back up your bags and head your ass home, back up north where you belong.

Wake up!

Ow!

Ow!

You get this straight, shit-kicker.

Don't you go mistaking me for some whole other body.

You got your brains in your dick if you think we're just gonna fade away.

We're gonna be here till this thing is finished.

How about you, deputy?

Is that gun just for show, or do you get to shoot people once in a while?

Thanks for the beer.