As I made my way towards the corrider backstage for my second entrance tonight I heard the unmistakable sounds of sophomoric male rough-housing: someone groaning in pain and someone else laughing and ooooh-ing in sympathy. The pain was from Pinkie. What was he up to now?
A few more steps forward into the corridor and there he was, moaning yet laughing as he grasped his right forearm in agony intense enough he couldn't speak. Brock looked on from a couple feet away, chuckling at some spectacle he'd clearly just witnessed.
I looked further up the corridor and saw Brannon, our newest cowboy, a quiet, respectful, young man, a talented roper, and an excellent horseman, standing there with a big grin and holding the handle end of a 6 foot bullwhip. Brannon cracked the whip. I filled in the "what" from there and decided the "why" didn't really matter - it's just Pinkie.