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Getting to The Rat Hole had been a hard, long slog. An early rise followed by a state-wide run across the desert left them sweaty and tired. What would be more natural than to strip off that sticky t-shirt and let it all air out? No one's going to judge you at The Rat Hole, in fact you'd be encouraged.
Led Zeppelin blaring on the jukebox. A line drawn on the floor, and the contest was on! The rules were
- The shot glass rode on your chest.
- You couldn't touch the shot glass with your hands.
- There had to be an official two-fingers' worth in it.
- You couldn't hold it steady by clamping down on it with your chin.
- You had to make it farther than the other chick did.
The money was on the counter, and already three or four shot glasses had spilled to the floor. But she had developed the right poise and control and could feel -if not see- the finish line ahead.
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