“And did their legs run away?”

“They didn’t get far,” says P with a chuckle. “These 10-inch Kershaws are incredible. They go through a knee like you were slicing a birthday cake. And I did a number on some zoms too when Magda wasn’t around. All by my lonesome.” She unsheathes her tan-handled hip blade and holds it up like it’s show-and-tell in Michael Myers’ kindergarten class. This is no Deputy Bob folding knife. It’s a fucking machete.

+++++++++++++++++++

Luxe and I have a porn connection, sisters on the sex set, I can feel it, and it’s not that way with Krieg, she’s too German or something.

Wait, Dieter’s back. Here’s the crucial point, Deb, and I know whenever you think of me you think of Dieter from Shprockets, that Mike Myers character on SNL, and that’s fine. I was Dieter before he was Dieter, however, and I’m not a poofter, though we both love art films and West Germany. But I’ll cut to the chase, as Lonnie liked to say.

. . . .

The stream goes silent. Dieter? Did I say that aloud? How much does Dieter know? Is he fucking omniscient? He knew about the Dieter from SNL that’s always in my mind when I hear the name Dieter. How could he know that? Or is it just me talking to myself? Is that a property of the White Lightning? I’m just having a fucking head trip, pun offended? While I was listening to this, I’d wandered forward in a sorta daze so my feet are in the surf. I turn around to look at Krieg and Dieter. She’s holding him under her Honey-topped monster bustline, which he seems to be wearing like a giant tittie hat. He’s smiling, still looking at me, but he blinks and his gaze shifts to my left, where G and Mir are walking T outta the water, which is clearly a sight no one wants to miss.