"Sweet zombie Jesus!" yelled Erik. "This is such a rush!"

Erik had just hotwired some poor sap's Cadillac and was taking it for a joyride. And to think, Heather had said he was incapable of doing anything useful. Well, she was pretty much right on the mark, but, hell, that's why he was out here tonight.

He needed to get his rocks off, so he went to the No-Tell Motel for some action. He parked the Cadillac in front and looked at all the hookers standing outside. The first one to walk over to his car was a young, waifish lady who wore a bright red cocktail dress. He rolled down his window as she bent down to talk to him.

"Want to have some fun, sailor?" she asked.

"As in pinochle?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe even a little round of Parcheesi."

Erik got out of the car, and the prostitute led him up to Room 8-G, where they got funky like a monkey. Funnily enough, neither of them was particularly interested in the sex. They each seemed more preoccupied with staring at their reflection in the mirror above the bed.

When it was over, Erik turned to the prostitute and said, "You were great."

"It's my job," she replied.

"You're a professional, right?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Do you ever give your heart to your clients?" he asked.

"Never."

"Good. I can't afford to give you mine."

"Why not?" the prostitute inquired.

"Because I love my girlfriend," Erik said. He meant it, too. Well, sort of, anyway.

Erik then fell asleep and had a nightmare about fencing devils, Bible-thumping clowns, and five-year-old girls. When he woke up, he was surprised to see that the prostitute was still in the room. She was now wearing a black mini-dress.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

She walked over to the bed and said, "I wanna make you a deal."

"I didn't know whores haggled."

"I'm not your average whore," she informed him. "I don't fuck for money."

"What do you want then?"

"I need a place to stay. Just for a little while. And don't worry. I'll more than earn my keep."

The prostitute's sultry tone was more than enough to convince Erik. He drove her to his place in the stolen Cadillac. While in the car, something occurred to him.

"You know," he said. "I don't think I ever got your name."

"That's because I never gave it."

"So what do I call you?"

"Call me anything you want. Just don't call me late for dinner." She did an air drumbeat. "Ba-rump bump bump."

"But seriously..."

"Call me Jenny C."

"Like the beer?"

"No, like the name Jenny followed by the letter C."

Erik led Jenny C up to his apartment. It was a quaint little place, except for the fact that lying on the floor was a sleeping naked man whose genitalia was covered by gay porn.

"What is that?" asked Jenny C.

Erik replied, "That would be my roommate, Joshua." He walked over to Joshua and kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up."

Joshua did not reply with any conventional words but rather with a series of grunts.

Erik said, "Dude, look, I know you're comfortable with your sexuality, but I'm not. So can you please tone it down a bit?" Joshua simply rolled over onto his side and let out a great big fart.

All of this commotion caused Erik's other roommate, French Canadian Jacques-Pierre, to come out from his bedroom. French Canadian Jacques-Pierre was a nineteenth century fur trader who was whisked away by a time vortex and landed in our modern era. "Ah, 'ello Erik," he said. "Who is your friend? She is pretty, no?"

Erik said, "Oh hey. This is Jenny C. Jenny C, this is French Canadian Jacques-Pierre."

"Hi, French Canadian Jacques-Pierre," said Jenny C. "Are you some sort of trapper?"

"Why, 'ey, 'ey, you know it, bay-bee. 'ow about you and me go 'unting for small fur-ree animals sometime, a?"

"Yeah, maybe. How about sometime when I'm not busy restraining my vomit."

"Why, 'ey, 'ey, you've got a cute tongue on you, bay-bee." French Canadian Jacques-Pierre turned to Erik and said, "So I take it 'eather will no longer be staying 'ere."

Erik retorted, "Heather can do whatever the hell she wants. Me and her are broken up."

"Uh oh. I smell trouble brewing. She's gonna 'ate this."

At that moment, Jenny C felt a dampening between her thighs. She excused herself and walked over to the wall. With her back to the wall, she squatted down and hiked her dress up to her hips. Her white cotton panties were ruined by a streak of red as blood seeped through. Erik and French Canadian Jacques-Pierre gasped out of shock.

Erik said, "Oh dear Bob! Do you need help?"

"No. I'm fine," she replied.

"You seem unprepared," said French Canadian Jacques-Pierre.

"Yeah, well, I don't like to keep track of such things." She pulled out an instant camera from her purse and began taking photos of her soiled underwear.

This appalled Erik, who asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking photos for My Red Self Magazine."

"Why?"

"They pay good money."

"That's fucking sick."

"Oh please. If I were doing this at Hallwalls, you'd call it art."

French Canadian Jacques-Pierre said, "I must admit. It's starting to turn me on."

Fetishisms aside, Erik decided to sleep with Jenny C. Sleep with as in resting together, side to side, and not as in the biblical sense. They were awakened from their slumber, however, when Heather stormed into the room and started trashing the place. Her head was freshly shaved.

"Heather!" Erik yelled out.

"You're a fucking whore, Erik!" she screamed out in disgust.

"How can you say that?"

Pointing to Jenny C, Heather said, "You brought a fucking slut to take my place in bed."

"But we broke up!"

"You left a Post-It note in my box of Tampax!"

"It was somewhere you were sure to find it!"

"You're a fucking pig!" Heather reached into her panties, pulled out a bloody tampon and slung it at Erik. It smacked him right in the face. She then said, "You don't deserve me."

Jenny C asked, "Hey, can I take some photos of you?"

"What?"

"Well, it's that..."

"Nevermind her now," Erik interrupted.

"Look, forget it," said Heather. "I hope you two are happy together." With that, she stormed out of the room.

Erik tried moving closer to Jenny C, but she slapped him. He asked, "What was that for?"

"You lied to me. You said you loved your girlfriend."

As Heather angrily walked across the living room, she bumped into Joshua, who was walking around naked. "Put some pants on, won't you?"

He replied, "Hey, you wouldn't ask Michelangelo to clothe David."

She looked down at his dangling participle and said, "Well, then at least turn up the heat."

Over in his bedroom, French Canadian Jacques-Pierre was kneeling beside his bed in prayer formation. He looked up towards the sky and said, "Are you there, God? It's me, French Canadian Jacques-Pierre. I need your 'elp."

"French Canadian Jacques-Pierre?" a voice from the heavens responded.

"God? Is that you?"

"No. Actually, God is in a very important meeting right now. I'm his secretary, Steve. He asked me to take down all the prayer requests. He'll get back to them as soon as possible. So what's troubling you, my son?"

"Oh, well, you see, it's like this. My friend Erik, 'e treats 'is girl 'eather badly. And I like 'eather. But I don't know 'ow to tell 'er 'ow much I want to 'elp 'er."

"Wait a minute. Is this a romantic issue?"

"Well, yes, I guess you can call it that."

"Let me save you the time and trouble of praying over this. God can't fix these situations. He may be the supreme omnipotent being, but even he can't figure out the workings of the female mind."

Then an angelic voice spoke. "French Canadian Jacques-Pierre?" it said.

"Are you an angel?" he asked.

"No, it's just me Heather."

"Oh." French Canadian Jacques-Pierre turned his head and saw that Heather was in the room.

"Did you mean all those things you said?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then will you run away with me to Quebec?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Heather stole Erik's already stolen Cadillac and drove off with French Canadian Jacques-Pierre. She complained about Erik the whole trip. "He's such an asshole," she said. "I can't believe I ever thought he loved me."

French Canadian Jacques-Pierre responded, "Don't be so 'ard on yourself. 'e knows all the smooth words women want to 'ear. If you didn't fall for 'im, you wouldn't be 'uman."

"How long have you had that speech prepared?" inquired Heather.

"Why do you say that?"

"I saw you glance down at the note in your hand."

Sure enough, French Canadian Jacques-Pierre's speech was written on an index card in his hand. He said, "Yeah, well, I just wanted to make sure I didn't fuck it up."

"Aww, how sweet."

"What can I say? I'm just that type of guy."

"Can I admit something to you right now?"

"Sure."

"Sometimes, when I would sleep over, I'd see you without a shirt, and--I'm kind of embarrassed to say this--but, well, my nipples would get hard."

"Yeah, well, we keep the 'eat down to save money. We're cheap bastards. Oh yeah, and we like to embarrass Joshua."

"French Canadian Jacques-Pierre, you've got an innocence about you that I just adore."

At that moment, the Cadillac rear-ended a Buick. The Buick happened to belong to Luciano Laguardia, the world-renowned mobster. Laguardia stepped out of the car and walked over to the Cadillac while pulling out his pistol. He shot Heather and French Canadian Jacques-Pierre right between the eyes.

Luciano Laguardia doesn't fuck around when it comes to his vehicle.