Finger Pistols Frank was the best horseshoe thrower in the county, just ask him. Each year during the Labor Day Weekend Family Fun Days Celebration, the local chapter of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows hosts a horseshoe tournament, and Finger Pistols Frank has been the champion shoe tosser for 19-years straight.

Second Fiddle Silas, as Frank liked to call him as he “pow…powed” him with double finger pistols, had rang in at runner-up for those very same 19-years straight. Silas was a kindly man, gentle, soft-spoken, a friend to all, and each year all gathered around the horseshoe pits in hopes that Silas would holster Frank’s finger pistols.

Frank had a special fedora that he only wore for the championship match each year. Affixed to the fedora were 19 gold horseshoe shaped pins that were each conspicuously emblazoned with the word “CHAMPION” and the year in which it was won.

The Independent Order of Odd Fellows didn’t issue the pins to the champion, Frank had them made special for himself at a local business, The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn. They hated making them for him, but business is business. So it goes.

The fedora glistened and glinted in the afternoon sun with each turn of Franks head while he peacocked around the horseshoe pits. When he let go a good toss, a toss he knew was a ringer, which to the chagrin of all, happened more times than not, he would turn to Silas while the horseshoe was in midflight tip the bill of his fedora, wink, and fire his finger pistols to the clank of yet another solid ringer.

Silas had trained all year for this day. During his many hours of training he’d inadvertently discovered that the grease and salt from potato chips on the fingers of his throwing hand, covered with a thin leather glove gave him tremendously sensitive touch and a level of accuracy he’d never experienced in all his days of throwing shoes.

Silas had been putting up with Frank, and his finger pistols, for long enough, and he was determined to keep the gold horseshoe count on his stupid fedora at 19. This was his year.

The championship match was a back-and-forth battle, ringer after ringer fell upon the stake. Franks finger pistols were blazing, and everyone feared they’d have yet another year of listening to him prattle on at Olive’s Cafe each morning over coffee and rolls. The fact that people tolerated Frank and his early morning finger pistols for 19-years is a testament to those rolls.

Silas needed a ringer to win, he’d never been this close to victory, he could taste it. Actually, he could taste the potato chips he was eating to apply one last coat of magic to his fingers.

While Silas contemplated his final toss, Frank was parading around trying to get the chant of Second Fiddle Silas going, and planning his stop at The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn first thing Tuesday morning to have pin number 20 made.

Amid all the distraction, Silas forgot to put his thin leather glove back on, and as he let go his final toss the grease from the potato chips caused him to lose his grip. The errant horseshoe twirled towards Frank. It made a metallic “clink” as it struck the pins on his fedora, and as he fell facedown, double finger pistols in the dirt, crushing the bill of his hat, the unmistakable “clank” of a ringer rang out. The crowd roared. Silas licked his fingers.

The Independent Order of Odd Fellows commissioned The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn to make a plaque to place at the horseshoe pits to commemorate Frank. “Finger Pistols Frank, tolerated by many, liked by few, loved by his mother (so he claimed).”