“He-he-he…Oh no, it wasn’t THAT bad. I said he ASKED if he could stick his tongue down there.”
“Of course I did!”
“OH MY GOD!”
“Like he-he and stuff.”
I felt myself becoming violently ill. Putrid would be the correct word and I could feel the vomit rise as she continued to giggle and talk and giggle and talk and talk and giggle and talk until all of a sudden I crack her across the skull with a large piece of wood I had found behind a dumpster.
There was no cry from the girl, just a muffled giggle, as if someone had pulled the string to her larynx and would not let go. Blood flew from her skull and splattered the Capri-pants of a sorority chick across the street. She screamed, “Oh my God! My Capri’s!” and ran away. I didn’t feel sorry for her or her Capri’s.
The young lady’s cell phone slid out into the middle of the street and lay there like my grandfather when he broke his hip. I could hear the girl on the other end of the phone ask, “So what are you wearing to the party on Frid” just as the Blazer’s front left tire crushed the phone.
Did the girl get the stains out of the Capri's?