In the car on the way to drop my stuff off at Wildcard, I go to Alisha, “Wanna hear something cute about Chooch?”
Because Chooch is her second favorite subject behind the art of masticating cherry pie after it’s been ridden bareback by a gang of STD-laden missionaries for the Church of Satan, she said “Sure” with rich vehemence.
“Well, we were watching the NHL Network—” I began, excited to weave my web.
“Why’s it always gotta start with that?” she spat, fronting like she doesn’t enjoy a good slapshot.
Then I dropped off my stuff and drove through a gritty, rapist alcove of a parking garage downtown Pittsburgh, just for kicks.