Dan, Hatchet man, and I are in the Kum & Go snagging some breakfast before heading off to roustabout on the Shoshone oil acreage. My name’s Jimmy, Jimmy Shalinsky, but most people call me Clit. I got the name because I’m creditable with the ladies. You be acquainted with, well-ordered. Dan may have the looks, and Torpedo may have the range, but I got the talk. I always was a rarely on the diminutive side, lank though. Demanding, you be acquainted with—but I can cut out it with the ladies.
Humdinger is putting together some nachos. He mounds the chips, ladles hot nacho cheese, and then uses the tongs to try to fish out some jalapenos, but he gets drained of it so he grabs them with his fingers and plops them on top. Then he slurps his fingers.
Dan appraises the move and says, “I muse over you can fit some more on there.”
Exterminator looks at the spin and then at Dan and grins. “Fire in the aperture,” Lollapalooza says.
“I’ll show you fire in the pickle,” Dan says, glancing over at the fat lady with the strapping tits behind the token.
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