It was over. The shootout, that is, involving outlaws and Pendleton Agents, as well as modern day FBI and black op personnel, essentially everybody relevant to setting the stage; all happened right outside his motel window. Bullet holes just about everywhere when he came to. All he could recall was pop pop pop pop pop, and Gideon's Bible flying up in the air in slow motion because there was so little difference these days between movies and life that 

Darleen was already wrecked by the time she met the two brothers out at Presley’s. The one with the hat was named Socks. Aldridge had the fuzzy hair.

She went back to their trailer because they told her they had records and pot. Socks and Aldridge played one LP after another while they smoked their pot out of a bong they made out of the 3 1/2 inch outlet pipe from their kitchen sink.

After a while, 

Sitting in the Blarney Stone off Columbus Circle, Schmidt fingered the pretzel bowl, considering a statistic his cousin Charley had mentioned, that food on bar tops had so many parts per million of shit in it. It was probably true, Schmidt thought but didn't care. He crunched his pretzel, trying to