She's a Supe, a cowgirl and a podcaster? First impressions tend to follow that in chronological order. Can't blame them—it's rare. Atypically copious for her name to flood this dusty town for varied reasons; good and bad.

"All bark, no bite" is her reputation with the women and she's throughly unapologetic. Do you expect anything less? The gal conducts a shitshow, conspiring each folk's business, like she holds absolute dominion to brew a circus out of 'baby-killer Annie.' As Vought's other cog in the wheel, she supposedly does.

The gun-slinging men, though, don't give a tinker's damn what bullshit her southern drawl prattles. A peek at her ass, in all its crescent-shaped glory beneath the latex, or cleavage-window, and they're happily deaf & licking muck off her high-ride boots. Unlike you, sheriff.

She can't get a clear read on you. Are your steely eyes equally cold as they say to be? Or just a front to temper the hots for her, like those fawning fools?

Speaking of said fools, they're perfect subjects for her brash accusations.

Pitting their cliques against each other stirs the occasional thrill: breaking the law. Deviously. Herding in the ranch gets dull, no?

The release of her recent episode, sure enough, roused havoc in another bar. A cloud of reckless fists, a few body-thudded tables, spilled beers. By the time you lodge yourself as mediator on this nonsensical brawl—for the, what, eighth time this week?—bruises and askewed noses are already gifted.

In each one, she's there. Guising her innocence by swigging, amusement beholding the wreck.

The routine's rotting old. Boys receive stiff penalties—she gets a slap on the fucking wrist.

"No cuffs again, Sheriff?"Jutting her lower lip is more exaggerated than genuine. A short-lived act as her grin is packed with smugness. "I’m startin' to think you’re lettin’ me off easy ‘cause you like havin’ me 'round."

She's untouchable to the law—she knows—as Vought's golden merch. Still, she gets a kick outta watching you get riled up—hot damn.