The day I met “Red” Williams he was sitting under a small tent alongside a quiet country road in Northern Louisiana. I could tell right away that Red had a lot of good qualities. But, the one I admired most, the one that convinced me to stop and talk to him in the first place, was the fact that he had a keg of beer.

Red was thinking about building a liquor store on that spot so he was sitting there giving away beer and sausages just to see how many people would stop by. Red’s tent was an instant success and soon the Williams family built “Wil-Mart.” Absolutely, without a doubt, the finest liquor sales establishment I’ve ever had the pleasure of repeatedly visiting.

There were a lot of good reasons to drive way the hell out in the boonies to Wil-Mart. They had frozen drinks with names like “Sex on the Beach.” They had hard liquor -- which was illegal back in the little suitcase college town of Ruston. The place just had a certain style. Wil-Mart had good karma. But the most important reason to go to Wil-Mart, instead of one of the other liquor stores, was that Wil-Mart was safe. It was safe even though it probably shouldn’t have been.

It was way out in the country. It would probably take half-an-hour or so for 911 to respond, if there had been a 911 service. It shouldn’t have been a safe place because the clientele consisted mainly of testosterone enhanced jocks, drug-crazed doodle-buggers, monetarily-above-the-law frat boys, and loud-talking, thick-fingered, pulpwood hillbillies.

Yet, your wife and kids were safer at Wil-Mart than they were at Wal-Mart. It wasn’t the fact that Red was armed, ill-tempered and dangerous that made the store safe. It was the fact that everyone knew that Red was armed, ill-tempered and dangerous. Everyone knew they were welcome, but everyone also knew they had to mind their manners.

The same principle works for every police force in the country. The fact that the police are armed, dangerous and cover each other’s back affords them a level of protection not enjoyed by the general population. Criminals don’t take shooting a cop lightly. They know, without a doubt, that they will bear the brunt of swift and harsh punishment if they shoot a cop.

Those two words are very important — “swift” and “harsh.” The cold-steel reality of those two words is all that’s keeping a lot of cops alive. Tell the right thug that, if he kills a cop, he may be punished someday and he’ll shoot one tonight. Tell him that, if he kills a cop, he probably won’t survive the ride to the police station and he’ll find another victim.

I’m not saying that being a policeman isn’t a dangerous job — those people put their lives on the line every time they pin on a badge. But, statistically, it’s not even in the top ten of dangerous jobs. Believe it or not, the most unsafe job in the U.S. today is that of a convenience store clerk. It’s an amazing fact, but you’re much more likely to be killed minding the neighborhood Qwik-E-Mart than you are riding around crack alley in a squad car.

If you really want to push your luck, try being female for a few days. Or better yet, a female convenience store clerk. Criminals prefer these people for one reason and one reason only: they make good victims. Retail clerks and women can expect this kind of treatment to continue until buying a Snickers bar or attempting a rape is as dangerous as being pulled over by the Los Angeles police.

Obviously, what we need is more mad-dog killer convenience store clerks. We need some semi-insane, ex-marine types to come across the counter and just beat the hell out of some customers for nothing more than being rude. What we need is more statistics where the clerk shoots the robber first.

We need more petite, attractive women blowing more large ugly holes in the predators of their choice. We need less gun control and more controlled shooting. We need more dead assailants and less dead victims. We need fewer abuse counselors and more morticians. We need more dead bad guys and fewer dead good guys.

What we desperately need is more safe liquor stores.

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