Page 58 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
I just absolutely refuse to go down like this.
One hand still on my boob, I reach out with the other and grab the first thing I find, hurling it past Vance’s head and hitting the woman square in the face.
With my llama pillow.
Whelp. That’s embarrassing.
A few people in the crowd snicker.
The woman doesn’t even flinch. She lurches forward on attack, but this time Vance counters her, standing in the way. Vance may be taller, but honestly, I’m concerned for his safety. Everyone in Texas knows you don’t send out your QB against a linebacker.
“Um, Vance. You might want to—”
The woman kicks out her socked and Croc-ed foot and nails him in his tender bits.
Vance goes down, sounding like a wounded water buffalo.
Sympathetic moans erupt from the crowd.
“Serves you right,” Croc Woman says to him as he curls into a fetal position, then she picks up the headset beside him.
Righteous anger dissolves, and I drop down to Vance’s side. “Vance?”
He moans.
“Sweetie.” I push his hair back off his forehead. “You okay?”
He opens his mouth, whether to moan again or answer me I don’t know, because his voice is drowned out by the Croc Woman. “You dirty spic.”
I black out. Or something. Because while the crowd gasps at her racial slur, my vision darkens, and a rage that I’ve never felt before surges through my body.
“He’s Native American, you racist asshole!” someone shouts, then lets loose a war cry worthy of Geronimo himself. That someone is me.
The next thing I know, I’m airborne.
The next several seconds are a battle of leverage and suffocation as the woman holds me to her chest, forcing me to motorboat her hefty bosom until I feel myself about to pass out from lack of oxygen.
I do the only thing I can—bite.
Howling, Croc Woman rears back. I jump up in an attempt to mount her like my stripper pole so I can subdue her with a scissor pike.
My ab muscles protest, and my scissor pike morphs into some kind of bear hug. When she regains her momentum, I’m riding her like a bride-to-be on a mechanical bull during her bachelorette party.
Hashtag fail. Hashtagmajorfail.
“Ladies, ladies!”
In a blur of color as Croc Woman moves left and right, trying to dislodge me, I make out two people in blue running toward us.
Sanity returns.
I loosen my grip, but I can’t jump off while she’s moving back and forth. “Stop spinning!”
Not surprisingly, Croc Woman doesn’t listen. Instead, she reaches back, grabbing me by my top-knot, pulling me forward like she’s trying to flip me over her shoulder.
And that’s when it hits me.
Nausea. Serious, gut-wrenching nausea.
