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seconds before she hits the pavement ten feet away with a sickening thud. Legs splayed, skirt bunched up, she lays on the ground, not moving.
    After what seems like an eternity, Vivian leans up on one elbow and mutters, “Goddamn...that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”
    Ginger jumps out of the passenger side of the car, wearing a skimpy halter top and those Daisy Mae jean shorts I love on her so much with cowboy boots. Her belly button ring catches the neon lights of the bar and winks colors as she struts toward me. She looks really hot. I quickly throw that thought away because it’s just not going to help me at all right now.
    Ginger’s boots crunch menacingly all the way over to me. She steps in close, too close for comfort. I take a small step back and glance over at Vivian who’s still sprawled on the ground, but is now busy digging through her big red purse. I hope she’s got a gun in there because I have a really bad feeling gnawing at my gut.
    “Listen, Ginger...” I say, clasping my hands together in a pleading gesture. “Your bike is obviously stolen. But it’s no big deal. Really. We’ll turn it in to the police and I’m sure they’ll find it.”
    “I moved my bike,” Ginger says in a voice so eerily calm it send chills all the way through me.
    Yep, she sure did. I don’t know how I missed it before, but there it sits on the other side of Hell Camino.
    “Ginger... Let’s talk about this, okay?” I whisper feebly.
    “Okay,” Ginger says. “Let’s. Talk.” She starts at my belly button and walks her fingers right up my stomach, across my chest, and doesn’t stop until she tweaks my right nipple. “Let’s talk about how you stole my bike out of the garage this morning.”
    Another tweak.
    “Let’s talk about how I don’t know where the fuck you are all day.”
    Tweak again. Now she’s really getting wound up.
    “Let’s talk about how I find you back here, drunk off your fuckin’ ass!”
    I cover my boobs with both my hands.
    “Or why don’t we talk about that slut you’re panting after like some damned dog in heat!”
    “Hah!” Vivian barks and pulls a cigarette out of her purse. So much for the gun.
    “Ginger, baby...”  I put my hand on her hip and make one seriously big mistake when I say, “Let’s, uh, go back home and work this anger out in a more, uh, productive way.”
    Ginger doesn’t even pause to think about it. She throws a roundhouse punch straight to my nose. And this is no girlie pseudo-macho punch either. This is the real McCoy. The next thing I know, the gravel is biting my ass, my nose is spurting blood, and Ginger is peeling out of the lot on her Harley.
    “Who the fuck was that?” says Vivian, standing and dusting off the back of her skirt with a lit cigarette clenched between her teeth.
    “That’s the second time she’s broken my nose,” I sputter, sitting up.
    “She has absolutely no sense of style. That Dukes of Hazzard’s thing is so nineteen eighties.”
    I roll onto all fours, trying to make it back upright.
    “Why didn’t you hit her back?” she says, demonstrating what I should’ve done by swinging her big-ass red purse in a high arc that almost sends her back to the ground.
    I don’t answer. I’m too busy bleeding to answer.
    “God, what a pussy you are,” Vivian says disgustedly, kicking chat in my direction.
    For some odd reason, I feel it necessary to defend myself. “I’m not going to hit a woman.”
    “You are a woman,” she says. “You can hit another woman. It’s allowed.”
    “Where’s that written? The cheerleader handbook?”
    “Yes, it is,” she says, sounding really, really serious. “It’s in Chapter Eight right before ‘A Wonderbra is a girl’s best friend’.”
    “Well, then, that explains it. I only read as far as Chapter Seven.”
    Vivian lifts herself into the passenger side of my car, crawls across the seat oblivious to the fact that her ass is in the air for the whole entire world to see, and situates