"Bracelets and a tiara from, what, a birthday party sleepover? You show your ass but likely haven't had more'n two romps your whole life. Aren't you World War II's oldest survivor?"
"Mirror, mirror. . ."
"In the English language," I says, "alien harkens the creepiest of images. Rooted deep as the unconscious."
"I am a goddess."
"Shit. You got a big chest, like it's a burden to your prudishness, but you flaunt it anyway. Gen-eric."
"You better watch your tone with me, Miss."
I roll a tampon across the carhood, it hits the wondiesnatch dead-on. Falls to the ground.
"Litter, litter. . ." I point. "I also seen them pictures of you rippin tubes."
"I have never done drugs!"
"Coffee?"
"Definitely not!"
"But the chocolate," I says. "Look at that jelly-belly."
She raises it above the fender, using it as cover. Electric yellow, the color of vitamin pee. "I will wrap you up, Quinn. What will be your confessions?"
"1: You're a nobody."
"Um—-I can fly."
"2: You are not my priest. 3: But I will go medieval on you like the Church. You seen the hammer I'm working with?"
