"The Floss Wagon, she's a mean mistreater" said Honk, " you do not mess with the stream this vehicle is putting out, brother, man I mean, nothing beats a great pair of legs except a full house, but this Floss Wagon, brother, I mean, why would you even consider putting your Johnson it's confectionary mechanics, I mean, why brother...."
Zamoan Artic was under the Wagon itself, clawing the cracked asphalt for some of the blades of grass and weed that poked through ; his face was embedded in glass and bottle caps.
"She got me howlin at the train that crosses the Del Mar swamp" was what Zamoan Artic uttered , "I had it under superb information that this was an easy A, a gig anyone could do with their nut sack tied off like a punching bag. I mean, how much manhood could be needed to run a goddamned Floss Wagon, I mean even your dead mom looks tougher than this aluminum coated excuse for a ramshackle fuck truck..."
Honk lifted his hand and framed Zamoan Arctic's head until it looked like he could pop it like an angry zit. Arctic's face indeed looked as if hairless hamsters where wrestling in his mouth, taking crazy liberties with his gumline.
"Lonely is the heartburn that seeks an hungry stick" is what Honk said as he emptied his can of lighter fluid on the terrified Zamoan Arctic. Honk and Arctic allowed their eyes to meet under the ashtray gleam of the man in the moon, who looked as if he found his lost pool cue as he took his seat.
"What next" asked Arctic.
"Beats me" said Honk, "since I quit smoking, that was just kind of pointless gesture."
"Fuckin A" said Zamoan Arctic, "HEY, I HEAR A DOG SLURPING ON HIS RASCAL!!"
"Damn" said Honk.
