Sierry Pete enters, spurs jangling. "Ah don't like anybody singin' about that dad-blamed song!" he says quietly but with venom dripping on every word. His hands quietly resting on the faux ivon grips of his twin, silver mounted .44s, hanging from his black, hand-tooled buscadero style gun belt with the silver conchos.

"Ah plumb don't like it," he repeats, and pulling his 1000x silver belly beaver down toward his eyebrows, glowers at the man with the guitar.