Read Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk for Free Online

them, then of course there’s the final and ultimate, be killed . Every Bravo is a PhD in the art and science of duress. Billy and Mango finish their pizza and start walking. With some food in their bellies they’re feeling stoked, and on a whim they wander into Cowboys Select, the highest-end of all the on-site establishments offering Cowboys apparel and brand merchandise for sale. The dizzying scent of fine leathers meets them at the door, along with a brightly lit Texas Lottery machine. Flat-screen TVs mounted in the walls are playing a highlights reel from the Aikman years. Billy and Mango are a little bit punchy coming in, they’re primed for an ironic retail experience, and in seconds the place has them laughing out loud. It’s not just the racks and racks of upscale clothing, the fine jewelry, the framed and certified collector memorabilia, no, you had to admire the determination, the sheer marketing balls of stamping the Cowboys brand on chess sets, toaster ovens, high-capacity ice makers, personal oxygen bars, and laser-guided pool cues. Dude, check it out! An entire line of Cowboys kitchenware. The two Bravos grow so rowdy that other customers start to give them some space. As far as Billy and Mango are concerned, the store is a museum, these are all things to look at but nothing a Bravo could buy, and the humiliation of it makes them a little wild. His ’n’ hers cotton terry-cloth robes, like, four hundred dollars. Authentic game jerseys, a hundred fifty-nine ninety-five. Cashmere pullovers, cut-crystal Christmas ornaments, Tony Lama limited-edition boots. As their shame and sense of insult mount the two Bravos become rough with each other. Dude, check it out, sick bomber jacket. Only six hundred seventy-nine bucks, dawg.
    Is it leather?
    The fuck you mean, hell yeah it’s leather!
    ’Cause, dawg, I don’t think so. I think that’s pleather.
    The fuck it’s pleather!
    Unh-unh, dumbshit. It’s just you’re so fucking ghetto you don’t know from pleather—
    Suddenly they’re grappling, they’ve hooked arms in a fierce shoulder clench and lumber about like a couple of barroom drunks, grunting, cursing each other and butting heads, laughing so hard they can hardly stand up. Their berets go flying as they tear at their ears. It hurts and they laugh harder, they’re gasping now, bitch, shitbag, cum-slut, faggot, Mango jabs at Billy with stinging uppercuts, Billy crams a fist into Mango’s armpit and off they go on a left-tilting axis, pottery wheel and pot rolling loose across the floor. Can I help you! someone is shouting, jumping in and out of the way. Gentlemen! Fellas, guys, can I help you? Whoa there!
    Billy and Mango separate, come up flushed and laughing. The salesman—store manager? a middle-aged white guy with thinning hair—he, too, is laughing, but it’s clearly a situation for him, what with two obvious lunatics on his hands. Everyone else, staff, customers—the few who haven’t fled—is standing well back.
    “Is this leather?” Billy asks, lifting a sleeve from the rack of bomber jackets. “ ’Cause moron here’s trying to tell me it’s pleather.”
    “Oh no sir,” says the manager, “that’s genuine leather.” He’s chuckling, he knows they’re putting him on, but in the manner of straight men since the beginning of time whose job it is to bring order to a sick and comical world, he launches into a fruity description of this full-grain aniline lamb’s-leather jacket, the special tanning and dyeing processes and so forth, not to mention the coat’s superior construction qualities. Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, the Bravos hear him out with the rapt expressions of cavemen watching popcorn pop.
    “See, dumbfuck”—Billy cuffs Mango’s shoulder—“I told you it was leather.”
    “Like you know so much about fashion. I bet you ain’t even wearing underwear—”
    They swat at each other, start to grapple, but the manager’s gulpy Whoa! calls them off.
    “So, hunh. You