8Bit's Night of Glory at the Rodeo

What follows is simply my account of what happened one night during the BBQ cookoff out the rodeo. 8Bit Chris may have a different account but I doubt he remembers anything.
The second (I believe) night of the BBQ Cookoff at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo was going along smoothly and once it got dark my sis and her husband, whom you all know as the 8Bit Chris, arrived and then things slowly got interesting.
8Bit hits the bar and asks for a beer, I say something like, "Don't be a pussy. Drink some whiskey with me." This was after we had a done a shot of the tasty brown devil. He acquiesced and kept on truckin' until my sis came up to the bar and said, "8Bit is talking really close to people, so maybe you should lighten the pour or just don't serve him. Get him to drink some water." I did as told but by this point, after a slew of wicked strong jello shots, more whiskey and some food, my boy was three sheets to the wind.
The bar was super fucking busy so I didn't pay much attention to what my beloved family members were up until one of the other bartenders pointed to a corner and said, "Dude, I don't think your brother in law is looking so hot."
I turned my head and see 8Bit slouched in a chair, looking like he was taking a power nap. Someone gets the bright idea to make him drink some water seeing as how he was fucking tanked and passing out. I said, "No. You give him water and he drinks it up, it's going to overload his stomach and push all of the food back up and that ain't gonna be pretty." I am ignored, and as cook team members and other patrons look on my sis begins having him sip some Dasani. It was actually kinda sweet and cute to behold. However, as I had feared, he started convulsing a little and I dashed to grab a trashcan. 8Bit unloads his fajitas, ribs and sausage which looked like some demonic black sludge. Really, it was a shade shy of bubblin' crude.
Being the professional alcoholic I am, I grab my bag and take out some ginger pills (these things ease digestion and settle your stomach. For me, these are lifesavers. After drinking myself into the hospital which resulted with unpleasant gallbladder problems, ginger seems to be the difference between living a happy life or puking up neon yellow bile for extended periods of time) and a couple of asprin and force the fuckers down his throat.
He's starting to fade at this point and it really wouldn't be good to have somebody shitfaced in the tent in case a cop came by so I decided we needed to get 8Bit and my sis to their car as quickly as possible. He's pretty much dead weight and with my knee being fucked (which I'd dislocated by doing a David Johansen impression at Griff's to "Looking for a Kiss"), I knew I couldn't move him on my own.
I head over to the pit and grab one of the super cool meatcutters we bring in named Ed to help me out since he is a huge motherfucker. Ed and I each grab and arm and realise this ain't gonna happen. Then, genius strikes.
"How 'bout we just throw him on the dolly and wheel him out," is Ed's suggestion. And, sadly, it was the only option.
8Bit is schlepped onto the dolly, his body flailing in whatever position we prop him to ala Weekend at Bernie's, and we head out to the parking lot.
If you've never been to the cookoff it's important to know how this thing is set up. There is a HUGE parking lot at Reliant that is used for the fairgrounds and tent space. To reach it, you must park a good 10 minutes away, and trek across a bridge that overlooks the street below and then pass through another parking lot to get to your car. It sucks. Especially, with a drunk person in tow.
I light a smoke and we head out. Immediately, there are lines of good ol' boys and their skanks pointing and laughing at our cargo. Camera phones break out. Then the digital cameras. Then, even a couple of low tech video ones. We tread on, trying to ignore the bullshit until some guy comes up with a beer and tries to force 8Bit to drink it. My sis snaps. Pushes the cat and screams, "Leave him the FUCK alone!"
I figure it's time to get into brother mode and walk over and tell the guy to fuck off.
We march on. It's not so bad until right around the exit gate (where there are always about five pigs) I start to get nervous, thinking they won't let us clear out and my boy will have a ticket slapped on him. Of course, some dipshit trying to rub his head came up first and this posed a different problem.
I shoved the guy off and told him to beat it. He got agro and noticing there where cops just a few feet ahead, I baited the motherfucker into a fight. We cross the exit and before the guy can even clench a fist, HPD has violently thrown him into a trailer, nightstick against the back of his neck, telling him to cool it. Ed asks, "How come you didn't hit him?"
"Well, how come you didn't, man?"
"Cause I saw the cops."
"Same reason as me, bro."
We march on. Over the bridge and to the queue line for rickshaws (think of it as a carriage but with bikes instead of horses. Come to think of it, that is ironic for Texas, especially at a rodeo).
It is fucking epic in length. Think Beowulf but instead of words, people. Everyone there is sympathetic to the cause and after 5 people I don't even have to ask to jump queue. The fine folks are just giving us the hand signal to move on up. Until we get to about 10 people from the front.
Two yuppies shove me back, I ask them politely if we can skip ahead and point to my inebrieated brother in law, dead to the world on a dirty, metal, green dolly. They promptly tell me to get to the back. I explain that everyone else was cool with it and even offered to pay for their fare. The popped collar bro's cunt girlfriend starts in on me and shoves me back again. I calmly tell her that if she doesn't cool it and touches me again, I'm gonna fucking deck her man. Then a cop steps in.
Well, actually, he didn't step in so much as began jamming me in my ribs (just so ya know, I'm a scrawny cat. No padding there) as hard as he can with his nightstick yelling, "You're not gonna hit now woman!"
I jump back and say, "NO! I SAID I WAS GONNA HIT HIM!" and point to the popped collar bro. The cop cools it off my ribs and ask what the fuck is going on. I relay the details and he giggles, shows sympathy and grabs the next free rickshaw for us. Ed and I dump 8Bit onto the backside and the driver nervously asks, "He isn't gonna puke is he?"
I rip a twenty from my roll (the night before had been very beneficial, tip wise) and said, "Don't worry about it. He's done. And if he does, this should cover it." He looks hesitant so I grab a tenner and then they went off into the humid Houston night.
I talked to my ma about this before I had report back at the tent in the morning (yeah, about 14 hour shifts for 3 straight days) and we agree it is best to not let my father know about what happened. Of course, when I waltz in, the cook team is making jokes about it and my dad begins grilling me for info. He's giddy and laughing his ass off as I recount the details. I'm relived, until I realise something, turn and say, "Dad, if that had been me you'd be beating my ass right about now. Probably, disowning me!"
He just shrugged. Welcome to the family, 8Bit.