He had a black eye that had evolved into a sickening purplish-green color, and a bruised cheek that was just turning brownish-yellow-black. A knot the size of a tennis ball showed prominently on his forehead. There was a matching knot on the back of his head that made his normally well-groomed hair look like it was pushed up from having slept on it while it was wet. Both bumps made it impossible to wear his Stetson the way any God-fearing Texan was supposed to wear it. Still hacking out smoke-induced phlegm from exposure to the fire at the caretaker’s house, his voice sounded like he was a life-long whiskey and cigar man. He smelled like he’d been the chef at an all-day barbeque, and rubbed the ashes all over his body, which surely didn’t smell right to any individual with any kind of normal sense of olfactory modality. Finally, he hadn’t slept as much as a large, growing boy ought to sleep, and this consequently resulted in his present state of crotchetiness. Fellow Pegramville residents might liken that to Bubba possessing the normal Snoddy genes.
