This chick is that big, easy. I’m having trouble focusing on her, it’s the acid, she’s got a slightly stained-glass aura that seems to be fluttering in the breeze, facets of fractured color dancing across her muscles as she moves. She also seems vaguely familiar. No sooner does this occur to me than Joy mutters to us, “Holy fucking Godzilla, that’s Magdalena Krieg.”

“Ilsa?” I hiss in a panic. “The fucking DVD is in the trunk of the Pony.”

“What DVD?” Joy wonders.

“Long story, I’ll tell you later. You sure that’s her?”

“Yeah! I made her a coupla times when I did Rosy Fingers for Dieter. She was on the set most days. A fucking tiger in the sack. It was like wrestling with an angel. She likes me and she’s gonna recognize me.” Joy straps on her back scabbard so her hands are free, presumably, for the impending love hug.