“So tell me, what is this fantasy of yours that you mentioned on the phone,” Kleebow said, adjusting his not-well-wiped ass into the plush ultra-suede armchair.
Pascal struggled to come up with some more benign fantasy to present to the doctor. “I want to take a radial saw to your skull and make a clean cut around the circumference, lifting off the dome of your pate and then scoop out your brains with a grapefruit spoon and eating them.”
Dr. Kleebow pressed a little red button under the table and a moment later a detachment of men in white suits burst through the door. “Bring Mr. Devonshire to the torture chamber,” he said, pulling his ass cheeks unstuck with some effort.
That night Mrs. Kleebow made a gluey macaroni casserole, which pissed the doctor off because it had so many carbs. He dropped his pants at the dinner table and, scooping out a pile of the stuff with a serving spoon, spackled up the crack of his ass.
The next day, Mrs. Kleebow played bridge with her friends, but when it was her turn to bid, she barfed all over Patsy Cunningham, who later, without time to clean herself off, went to the motel where she routinely fucked Pascal Devonshire. He didn’t show up.