Doc grew up in Huntsville, Missouri. He took boxing lessons, then some martial arts classes. But he was an exquisite diplomat. He didn't need to fight with his fists.
He did some lobbying in Missouri. He told me to handle deadbeat clients by looking them straight in the eye and saying: "I want my fucking money now, motherfucker." He and I ended up in jail after he did that one time. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His wife or girlfriend bailed us out early the next morning.
I have not forgotten that demand for payment. A software consultant in San Francisco later wrote an article — "Just fucking pay me," or something similar. Doc got there first.
Doc took me and Julie to an expensive restaurant at the Lake of the Ozarks for my birthday. South of Jefferson City, on the way down, a small caliber revolver slid out from under the driver's seat while I was driving. Doc picked it up and pointed it at my head. "Get on the right side of the road, motherfucker."
I told Doc that shooting the driver of his car at 80mph was likely to kill us all, and that we were in the left lane of a four-lane divided highway.
Doc emptied the gun and apologized.
We didn't have divided highways in Huntsville.
We ate fabulous food, drank French champagne, and threw the champagne glasses into the fireplace. Doc had no money to pay the bill.
We had a flat tire on his new Corvette a couple of miles from the restaurant. Doc and I couldn't find the spare tire. Julie found the spare tire, changed it out, and drove us home.
Doc always got the last word. Except at his funeral. I looked down at his corpse and ended my eulogy with: "Doc, I finally got the last word."