Gotta have tits, Elmo, huge knockers. None of these flat-chested skateboard types.
Fuck off.
That one! That one!
I drive; I choose. And shut that fool thing off.
Don't shove that beaver-plucker in my face, fuckhead. God only
knows where it's been.
Wouldn't you like to know?
Stan, you're sick, you know that?
Me? You should see ole Elmo here, bustin' bottoms with that pile driver
of his. Get it? Pile driver?
There! Elmo, whataya want, man? Didya see the hair on that babe?
Fuck off.
What's that for?
The heat rub? Elmo smears it all over his rubber, man, before he
butt-fucks 'em.
You're puttin' me on. Really, Elmo?
Yup.
You guys have really done this before?
Sure, Pauly, whataya think? We got two last month. Didn't we, Elmo?
Yup.
Elmo! There! Come on, man. Whatarya lookin' for?
A loner.
Shit, man, that'll take all night.
Fuck off.
There! There's one.
Where?
With the backpack, see? Slow up.
She's a baby, you guys.
Makes for a tighter fit, eh Elmo? Look at that mane!
Get ready, Stan.
Jesus, what are you gonna do with those?
Elmo, I think we got us a chicken-shit here. You gonna piss yerself,
Pauly?
No. Just askin'.
Relax. We don't stick 'em 'til after. Crack the back door. And rip off
some strips of that tape.
Now. Now! |