starter armadillo beans imported shot glass riot
“It’s the starter! I keep telling you it’s the starter!” Fiona was nearly bursting with the effort of her screams.
A few meters away, hidden in the shade of some desiccated scrub bush, an armadillo perked its ears, and then turned away from the car stalled next to the highway to seek cover from the scalding heat.
“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Fiona hollered as a semi-truck rumbled by.
Why don’t you ever stop whining, Lance thought.
“I told you last week to get the starter looked at,” she persisted. “But did you listen to me? Nooooo. You never listen to me. You know damn well I know way more about cars than you do. You know that. Why do you hold it against me when it’s so damn useful? That makes no sense.”
Fiona darling, Lance thought, you don’t know nearly so much as you think. Then he remembered the pick-up line he had used on her that night at Willy’s Wonker and smiled. “If I tell you you have a nice body, will you hold it against me?”
Fiona had laughed explosively and indulged him in a honky tonk slow dance during which she did, in fact, hold her body against his.
But Fiona wasn’t laughing now. She was fuming. With disgust in her eyes and on her lips, she kicked the tire nearest the driver’s door. Then she yanked open the back door and grabbed a beer from the cooler. “And why did you buy this damn imported beer?” she asked with irritation. “I hate this shit!”
Despite her distaste for Belgian hops and whatnot, she chugged several swallows of the amber liquid. When the alcohol reached her stomach, that organ began to revolt; whether from the cold, the quantity, or the content Fiona didn’t know. But it was clear that the bean burritos and blue corn tortilla chips that had passed as a lunch were planning a mutiny. At the first spasm, she remembered the breakfast sandwiches from McDonald’s as well. Those hadn’t sat well with her at all. Already she had visited two gas station restrooms to attempt extricating that meal from her body. In one of those lovely establishments she’d found the shot glass they christened the souvenir of the trip, even though they were only on the second day of the trip, and it was far too early to declare anything a memento.
But shot glass and starter be damned. Her stomach demanded exclusive attention. To ensure it, the organ bucked and kicked and roiled and moaned. Then it heaved its contents up and out of her body in a riot of texture and color.
At the highway shoulder, Lance turned away and laughed.