Shane won't come 'round for several reasons. First of all is Gluon. Gluon is keeping an eye out for him and Gluon is the kind of dog folks like S. McBridge fear most: they'll knock you to the floor and lick you clean.

Secondly, Shane is only vaguely aware (I'll continue, but I don't have to do so) of where Idaho is. To be more precise, Shane is only vaguely aware of where Shane is. He gets lost inside a sleeping bag.

Thirdly, Shane knows that I bite boulders in two, that I can outfight, outshoot, and outdrink any ten of him. He knows that I eat dynamite and spit pure nitroglycerin. He knows that I use hydrofluoric acid as a chaser to my drinks of sulfuric acid. He knows that I eat Rocky Mountain Oysters for breakfast and that I season them with potassium cyanide. He knows that the last time a guy tried to shoot me I caught the bullets in my teeth and spit them back, writing "Go Home To Yer Momma" on the side of the guy's armored car in bullet holes.

Lastly, he knows that I'm just a wimpy librarian when compared to some of the REAL women and men out here in Idaho. He knows our secret and it frightens him so much that he spends him time curled up in a little hole, sucking a bottle of Budweiser and wetting his pants from fright, the yellow blankie with the teddy bears pulled up over his head.

And here's our secret, the one that causes Shane McBride to soak his Depends because of fright: out here in Idaho, we bathe. Regularly.