So I said to Dean, I said, "I'll bet you ten times what you paid for it that that is NOT a genuine cow hammer. When I worked in the slaughterhouse I got real acquainted with one of those things. I called her Barbara, for that matter. She was heavy, more so than you'd think, with a fine wooden handle all polished up ta' hell. Engraved with fancy symbols. And that thing in your hands is NO GODDAMN COW HAMMER."

A man should never disrespect the cow hammer, nor should he claim to own one when no cow hammer is present. The thing is a TOOL. Dean just wants the attention, sitting in his ugly-ass pie shed out back and suffering all day, crying like a woman. He gave up on life, and I don't feel sorry for a man like that. "All my friends and family are dead, boo-hoo-hoo," and so on. Die already, if that's your attitude. My friends and family named me WINNER because I never cry like a woman, and because I know a genuine cow hammer when I see one. That's right. And Dean tries to tell ME he's got one, and you should see this thing! I nearly spit out my Pina Colada in surprise and fury.

So I'm yelling, and maybe I'm being a little hard on him, and he starts crying. And before you know it I'm feelin' bad about it, even though I'm WINNER and all. I use the tough love sometimes, but I'm really a softy at heart. And well, I suppose I love old Dean. I don't want to see him like this; I'm no heartless bastard.

Then he drops his little bitch hammer and runs off into the brush, and I yell after him, "You better run, faggot!" and I fire a rifle in the air. That might have been the wrong choice, but I stand by it.