PsionicDiamond

This is important. Think about it. THINK ABOUT IT.

When A featherlike protrufion matches up preficely with A leatherfike extrufion, it's A perflecty natureal reagction and A thing of breathfaking byeauty.

The world may never know how many screws it takes to screw in a screw bulb, whether it be one, or two, or three, or four, or five, or even six; or even if it is seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, or eleven, or twelve, or thirteen; for even though it may be fourteen, or fifteen, or sixteen, or seventeen, or eighteen, it may also be nineteen or twenty. For each screws in the screw at a different screw, according to screw's own screw, and screw, screw screw, screw screw. Screw.

Sally leans back behind her desk. With only a slight, pleasurable resistance, her ergonomically optimized office chair accommodates her full girth, accommodates it hard and deep. She's polishing her .22 and polishing off a bottle of whiskey when the door swings open and a man named Todd enters the room.

Sally sizes him up slowly. Tall and dark, with legs that go on for months. Staring him in his nervous, rabitty face, she arches one eyebrow expectantly.

"I hear you can help me find m—" the man begins, but is cut off by a sharp gesture from Sally. She points an accusatory salt shaker at him, sneering.

"I don't work for dames no more. You broads are nothing but trouble," she snarls contempt