Hammer Head

Hoss Davidson always walked awry with a hitch in his shoulders, like he might be cold-cocked at any given moment. That'd be a mistake though, he'd been thickened by fourty-six years of hosting WWF practice in his living room every Saturday night and daily trips to town by foot, in and out of the holler, an officially paced 23.5 mile round trip. He was a rigid 394,680 miles thick.
 
When Hoss got an arm around your neck
you could bet your ass you'd have a crick in it the next day. Neck wrangling wasn't only his dream job, it was his love language.
"I wouldn't hurt you fer nothing young'un, you're my little hammer head, you know I love you" he'd jabber from a wide, toothless grin that showcased both top and bottom gums with the lips of one side hugged by a half-moon of escaping wintergreen tobacco.
 
His head was always shaved tight, so as not to let a man get a hold on him. Even his bulbous eyes discouraged sneak attack eye pokes with their roundness and there was an agreeable suction between his army green suit jacket and his backwoods bulk. His prize possession was a mountie style cowboy hat he'd spray painted navy blue to match his Patton leather shoes, which got a fresh coat every time he scuffed them shuffling from pillar to post.  
 
Upon every run-in with Hoss, he would tell you it was his birthday. "I'm 54 years old today young'un. I shit you not. I wouldn't shit you, you're my favorite hammer head" and he'd slide you a sheepish sans-tooth grin that made you want to buy him a can of Skoal and it was written all over his face how much his momma had loved him, gone 46 years now, god rest her soul.