My updates to this journal have been scarce of late. Well, there is a reason for that. I've been inside Hootin' Holler's justice system. Deep inside. A quill pen and leather-bound diary tend to be conspicuous in such a setting.
Why am I in jail? The answer is simple. I am scouting new talent. While unquestioning thugs and desperate alcoholics cause trouble if their concentration grows too great, the truth is that every organization needs a few. The hard-luck drifter found walking along the highway with a car door in his hand may have skills that will be needed later. Or at least a pliable rashness.
Mind you, it has become somewhat difficult to get sentenced, or even detained by the sheriff's office. I seem to have acquired a reputation. Yes, it's true. Victims of petty crime are reluctant to even report me. I stole four chickens from four barns in a week's time. Each time the farmer saw the formidable Ezekiel Smith absconding with his poultry, and each time he kowtowed and begged off. The last time I released the chicken in disgust. It was only by scaling the outside of a family home that I got to this point. It was the wee hours of the morning, and the mistress of the house complained of suspicious noise in the night.
I don't need my boy joining me in here just now. When you're attempting to hire muscle, you need to keep your personal life separate. If this tag-ripping was indeed illegal, someone will have to be paid off.