Write of Passage number fifteen: they shoot Clydesdales, don't they?

Two young men are sitting on the bus - hoodies in camouflage patterns, earrings, leather jackets - comparing jobs and tattoos, their exchange punctuated with the usual expletives:
"See this one? One hundred *%$@#ing dollars."
"Yeah? How long did it take?"
"I dunno,$#@*&ing hours. Still hasn't &*%^$ing healed yet."

From my seat directly behind the last speaker, I am mesmerized by what I can see of his hair, various shades with indigo by his right ear. His cap, appropriately dark with the visor pulled to one side, reads: "Sweet Acre Farms -- Home of Carroll's Clydesdales".