Thumb broad. Thumb broad. Thumb broad. Because Morton and Noelle shared something, something sexy and evolutionarily profound: opposable thumbs.
Jean-Paul’s fucking ridiculously hot girlfriend, Vienna Roberts, could not be trusted, not in her ridiculous hotness. She couldn’t be trusted not to send out, what were they called, pheromones, whatever they were called; she couldn’t be trusted not to send them out, her ready-to-be-doing-it hot fucking vibes, out into the world, and he wasn’t always sure that he fucking needed to have sex like five fucking times a day, like in alleys and out behind the abandoned car dealerships out on the South Side, like, what was so fucking great about getting naked in an abandoned car dealership, some grease monkey could turn up at any time, or maybe like some fucking swine-flu-carrying poor-person grease monkey, freshly repatriated from the border or something, and Jean-Paul’d have his nightstick in her ridiculously perfect aperture, and then the disease carrier would be like what the fuck, watching them, but that would probably only embolden Vienna fucking Roberts, and she’d be like, ohmygod Jean-PaaaaaaUUUUULLL, all the contractions, like all Psoas magnus; the disease-carrying poor-person grease monkey could tell that something profoundly intimate was fucking taking place, and the disease-carrying poor person would just see, he could bear witness, totally comatose, he would be blinded by the high beams of her wet, convulsing self or whatever.
Which means Jean-Paul couldn’t always fucking keep up, but you know, if you’re like going to be a successful business owner, and this has been totally fucking proven, like read any book about successful CEOs, you’ll see that they all know how personality, the pursuit of fucking business personality, like this can really fucking make the difference for a corporation, make or break, like the thing with these start-ups is you have to nuke the competition before they even get the chance to start up their putrid low-class operations, and that means that there has to be a fucking personality who is a brand on his very own, a slaughterer of men; like look at those Asian pop-singing androids, they have their militias, like they travel with their own heavily armed militias, and the Sino-Indian economic compact guarantees these militias travel everywhere, across all the borders in the region; they’re like little city-states, devoted to fucking pop songs about cleanliness and obedience, comatose, and it’s a little bit different because those androids aren’t fucking allowed to appear like they have sex, but like the CEOs of the large fucking corporations that profit from the androids, those fucking guys, they have to have entire departments of the company that do nothing but place reports in the news and shit about how the CEOs are getting the freak on, day and night, maybe not taking clients to fucking strip clubs or anything, but you know these guys have posses of wives, they all converted to polygamy cults, and then they just get the freak on day and night, except when they’re calling analysts to talk about price-earnings ratios, stock valuation, and all that.
When Jean-Paul Koo heard from his ridiculously sexy girlfriend known as Vienna Roberts, saying she had something she wanted to show him, well, it could only fucking mean one thing, which was they were going to have to drive out to Rattlesnake Canyon or Esprero, whatever fucking canyon, you name it, and she’d have some new outfit, like it would be a combination of a shredded pair of army fatigues and some fucking crotchless something or other because she was all about the crotchless something or other, and then he was supposed to, you know, like do the dance of nakedness in the desert, but hopefully on a trail, because otherwise you could really stick yourself on something out there, and plus, oh come on, the mountain lion attacks were just getting like fucking ridiculous in Rattlesnake Canyon, because they kept building up Ownership Units on the mountainside, a good idea except for the fucking economic downturn and stagflation, and massive unemployment, and drought, and temperatures of 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and now not only are the parks basically abandoned, but there are no fucking rangers, and there are all these half-built Ownership Units and foundations dug and otherwise fucking abandoned, and so like every other week it’s some fucking disease-carrying person repatriated from the border, like with XDR-TB, who probably had a good fucking reason for wanting to be here, and that disease carrier was just shredded by a fucking mountain lion, broad daylight, or else it’s like a jogger, you know, and apparently what they fucking say, or at least all the fucking rumors are like okay the worst fucking thing that you can fucking do if you want the puma to bite your fucking head off and roll it around in its mouth like it’s a fucking lollipop, comatose, worst thing you can do is be out jogging and pushing like one of those fucking motorized three-wheeled perambulator things, with your fucking little bundle of fucking joy in it, because for some reason, or this was what they said, anyway, fucking pumas just fucking loved those fucking kids, and what they did was first they jumped off some overhang that you were running underneath because you were so fucking stupid you ran under an overhang, and maybe you were even wearing your headset, maybe using the screen option, and you only had half a fucking eye on what you were doing, and right then the puma leaped off the fucking overhang, because the puma could fucking jump twenty feet in a single bound, and it overturned the motorized three-wheeled thing, and the puma knocked little Junior out of the three-wheeled thing, and he popped Junior into his mouth like Junior was a burrito from the twenty-four-hour drive-thru place; hold those green chilies; I’ll take little Junior here with a soft tortilla and maybe fucking enchilada style with a little drizzle of red sauce; and that’s exactly what Junior would look like when fucking Junior was half hanging out of the puma’s slavering mouth, and then the alarm in the carriage would go off, you know in case somebody would want to steal a fucking baby from the fucking Southwest, or would try to hold the baby hostage, for like some millions that nobody had anymore? Go take a Chinese baby, motherfucker. Anyway, the alarm went off and then Mom screamed, and the mountain lion said, You got a problem? and before he was even finished slurping down the spaghetti insides of Junior, he had his mouth clamped around the head and neck of Mom, who was about to be a decapitated body stump.
The thing was, Vienna fucking Roberts would get an idea like this into her head, the idea of the mountain lion, and that would somehow only fucking embolden her, the idea that they might be getting into the dance of nakedness down in Rattlesnake Canyon, and some mountain lion would come jumping off the ledge, because there was always a ledge in fucking Rattlesnake Canyon, and it would fucking pounce on them, comatose, while Jean-Paul would be in flagrante or whatever, and there would be blood and cum and body parts everywhere. You’d think this would fucking be enough to kind of sour Jean-Paul, but no, the fucking truth of the fucking matter was that the worse it got, and the more pressured Jean-Paul felt about the whole dance of nakedness thing, the better he liked it. He fucking liked the fucking outrageousness; he was a slave to the outrageousness, to the freakiness of the freak, and CEOs had to do it, and so when Vienna Roberts said, Okay, come over, I have something to show you, then Jean-Paul drove over, like an indentured fucking servant, and even if the algae fuel cost fucking thirty-five dollars a fucking gallon or whatever, he would drive, because it was his money, and he could do with it what he wanted to do with it, and he fucking liked watching all the fucking people walking around with that fucking stiff, aimless posture of people on the street, fucking brain-addled people, giddyheads, like with fucking heatstroke, and he had one of the last automobiles on his street that had a fucking air-conditioning unit. So he drove over, and he fucking pounded on the door, a firm pounding, because a firm pounding was like a firm fucking handshake, and Jean-Paul was always trying to remember stuff like this and berating himself when he fucking forgot, because it was one of the fucking rules of advancement in the era of the Sino-Indian economic domination, the firm fucking handshake; Jean-Paul practiced the unmistakable door knock, and it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because Vienna’s parents wouldn’t fucking be there, because they were camped on the golf course out off Silverbell, trying to teach homeless people about Mao’s Little Red Book and the Sendero Luminoso, but who even knew who the fuck these people were; Jean-Paul only knew because his dad would go red in the face with disgust at the mention of Mao; his dad said Mao was responsible for all the evil in the world, which was a pretty great amount of evil; so he pounded on the fucking door, and Vienna fucking Roberts came to the door, and she wasn’t even wearing anything particularly slutty, actually; she was just wearing short-shorts and a tank top, nothing that she fucking wouldn’t wear any other day.