Tiny hangs up and says to me, “She’s on her way,” and then I’m left standing in the doorway as Tiny races down the steps and starts skipping - yeah, skipping - toward the junior parking lot. “Tiny!” I shout, but he doesn’t turn around; he just keeps skipping. I don’t start to skip after his crazy ass or anything, but I do kinds smile. He may be a malevolent sorcerer, but Tiny Cooper is his own goddamned man, and if he wants to be a gigantic skipper, then that’s his right as a huge American.

Eric didn’t know what words should come next, so he held up a hand of good-bye and retreat, backing up out of the kitchen, the apartment, and Scarlett’s life in general.
It took her almost forty-five minutes to calm back down, most of which was spent on the phone to Dakota.
“Let’s have him killed!” Dakota suggested cheerfully.
“I’m serious,” Scarlett said. “Help me. I’m under a table.”
“Is that a Shakespeare expression? Like, ‘Gadzooks! I am under a table, milord! Prithee, handeth me the pointy stick for to stab the cad!’ Is that what you mean?”
“I mean I’m under a table.

“Well, I don’t remember exactly what I called her, but it was something along the lines of ‘sniveling, repulsive, idiotic, backne-ridden, snaggletoothed, fat-assed bitch with the worst hair in Central Florida - and that’s saying something.’”

“Her hair is ridiculous,” I said.

“I know. That was the only thing I said about her that was true. When you say nasty things about people, you should never say the true ones, because you can’t really fully and honestly take those back, y’know. I mean, there are highlights. And there are streaks. And then there are skunk stripes.”

Colin began by employing a strategy he’d just invented called the “windmill,” which involved windmilling his arms around to keep his attacker at bay. The strategy worked brilliantly, for about eight seconds, until TOC caught hold of his arms.