I was at Nasty's back in the day, shooting pool with Peter Gardere's neighbor. He whipped out a one-hitter that had to be from outer space, or the future...maybe both. I was already in no condition to "herb up," because the bartender at Nasty's sometimes wouldn't stir the grain alcohol into the pitcher of margaritas. it would mostly just sit on the top. If that happened, and you poured yourself the first drink, it was a hammer. That happened to me twice that night. There was also an Asian girl there who kept screaming at me. Apparently, freshman year, I stood up her friend that I was supposed to have taken to a Cult concert. But she doesn't matter. Anywho, I was a wreck. I was close to hallucinating, and needed some air. They had a small patio, and I went out there to collect myself.
One of my friends followed me out, and was drunk rambling about a rode trip to Nuevo Laredo for quasi-legal purposes. Then, a voice from the corner of the patio said, "It's a long road to Laredo." I almost jumped out of my skin. I didn't know anyone else was there. He pulled back the hoodie that was covering his head. It was a white guy with a buzz cut, close to my age. He walked up to me, with a vibe of quiet confidence, and said, "Years from now, when you think the Longhorn football program is dead, I will return. The entire university will receive total consciousness."
I looked down at the table to grab my drink, looked back at him, and he was gone. I was messed up, so I can't be certain, but I am pretty sure that man was Butch Jones.