a binky in her mouth, like a mint cigarette, hoping ******* on the rubber ****** will quiet her down just
a little. She's a prickly opuntia, an irascible radical, a fanatical sphere. You cannot soften her blow by closing the window. She'll
rise through the floorboards towards you as you slumber. Ride you like a four-wheel Hummer, leaving tracks on your back. No
escape. She'll squash you in rhinestone stilettos like a concord grape. Turn you into crimson wine. Drink you up with a plastic plate of roasted swine.