If the sinews of your hand tighten and the skin is tautly spread over your beautiful knuckles and if your beautiful knuckles travel at 22 miles per hour towards the face of a deserving bully and if the deserving bully doesn't move his head but lets those sweet little weapons of yours sink in will I have my retribution?
Says the voice of the little maiden as she waits to be avenged by the man with the knuckles and the fists and the sinew.
At half past three, a strange picture, a kind of circus of silhouettes begins to play on the moon, the shadows seem to become ever more frantic to the bewildered earthling eye. Little did you know, there is a puppeteer who has taken residence on the moon.
The 7-11 near the Starbucks at the corner of Smith and Harrison is the most exotic place a girl can go after a night of fine wining and gourmet boredom. The all night snacks beckon her horny little head. The cashier has been waiting for her.
At the left bottom corner of his sock drawer is a picture of it. It is slick and thick and perfectly black as the night during which he will finally own it. His fist will bulge with the brilliance of it, just before it slackens.
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