Samuel tore the tire iron from below the driver's seat. The left leg of his bluejeans had been ripped wide. Below the knee, the blue fabric turned black from the wound. The jeans could not be mended and the leg would need to be severed, but he was in rapture.
"I'll give you the motherfucking of your life," he screamed. "You sweet bitch!"
Samuel pounded the tire iron into his palm. Ten feet away, Clinique held a chrome toaster at neck level, every muscle of her frame taut with violent anticipation. The straps of her black gown had fallen to her arms and pulled; a red line will appear across each bicep by morning.
"Cunt. Cuntflap! Puny." He cursed her.
"You don't have a schlong, Sam," she said. "You have a schlort!"
He cursed her.
"You oaf! You boar of a man!" Clinique howled like a devil dog and gleaked a sour brown stream at Samuel. He was now holding himself upright with one hand on his sweet Jag. He dropped the tire iron and grimaced as he wiped the gleak from his reddened cheek.
"I'm not a man, Clinique."
"No, you're not," she whispered. "You're worse." She lowered the toaster. "I hope you hated toast," she rasped. Raising her gown to her hips, she took a big ol' turd on the toaster. "You never gave me your LSD hook-up!"
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