I was generously volunteering my services as an amateur medical professional in the Deep South when, after getting my daily ration of hush puppies and my pail of water, I came across the town's head honcho, Radley Sawyer. He confronted me, a Winchester 73 strapped across his denim-covered back, an index finger tenderly caressing the polished six-shooter that rested in a holster on a snakeskin belt.

"I hear you're one of them European boys, boy," he spat, his mustache quivering slightly with the venom of his words. With no weapon on my person but a pocketknife given to me by one of the local orphans raised by alligators, I knew I had to judge my response well.

Unfortunately, my cool resolve abandoned me. My witty quip "I'm not European, I'm British, lad" was met by a chorus of gunfire from every direction. The saloon door across the street swung open as five shotgun-wielding men on horseback galloped menacingly towards me, three Hispanic looking fellows with sombreros jumped from the nearby swamp with two pistols apiece, and a couple of big-eared boys from the farm next door added their pitchfork skills to the mix.

With two bullet-holes in my finely-toned right pectoral, I sought refuge behind the F-150 parked conveniently beside the swamp. "I fear not your embrace, death, only the foul stench of your breath as you seduce me with your dark poetry," I cried, when suddenly, I heard a soothing, familiar voice.

"Fear not, mate," Glen Johnson spoke as he leaned out of the window of his vehicle. "Climb aboard the Glenmobile and you will be safe. You have nothing to fear, my friend." His presence slowed the bullets to a snail's pace, his words sprinkled phoenix tears onto my wound, the sincerity of his smile have me hope. As his four-wheeled beauty drove me away to safety, my fingers danced across the white number 2 stitched with care on the back of my Liverpool top. "Glen," I said with admiration. "I always knew you were a great defender."