Again Bob cursed the rain. ``I don't want to be your sex-tool,'' Julia had pleaded, ``I don't want to be your hobby horse.'' Bob spat a glob of phlegm on his shoe. It spread over the laces like a biker's runny stool.
``You fucked my brother, bitch, you fucked my fucking brother,'' yelled Bob toward the mall. The parking lot danced in his brain like a ballerina on speed, a 260 pound ballerina leaping off the stage into radical Bob's lap, Sprite on his pants, popcorn everywhere. Bob waved his jumper cables at a frantic mother pushing her kids into a Toyota. ``You want some, you fucking want some of this?'' The woman climbed in on her screaming brats and locked the doors.
Bob removed his jeans, one leg at a time, and clipped the positive cable onto his outstretched penis. ``Aaaaaaaaaiiieeeeeee!'' He sat in his Pinto, slammed the door, and blasted his car straight into the front window of 7-11, jumper cable dragging behind.
Later, in the hospital, all he would say is ``Big Gulp---79 cents, Big Gulp---79 cents.''