Fictionlet
“So,” said Brigid. “How was your lunch with Wenton Delaney?”
“Hard to describe,” Greg said. “I knew I was in for an experience when he came roaring up to the Frangipani on a big ol’ Harley Davidson. What a guy! About twelve feet tall, six hundred pounds of raw muscle, and a voice like a Mighty Wurlitzer.”
“Sounds dishy.”
“I suppose so, but it was a bit overwhelming. He gave me the impression that his main goal in life was to meet everyone on the planet between the ages of 22 and 42, so he could fight with all the men, and have sex with all the women.”
“Did you fight him, then?”
“Not exactly. We both wanted to pick up the check, so he finally agreed to thumb-wrestle me for it.”
“Broke your hand, I bet.”
Greg gave a smug grin. “Actually, I won. Pinned him in three.”
Brigid raised her eyebrows. “Holy cats, the man has super thumbs!”
He held up his hands and wiggled his thumbs at her. “Comes from a lifetime of twiddling, is my theory.”
-The Gneech
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