The car swerved in an attempt to dodge Mortimer’s flaccid appendage and after several over-corrections, it screeched to a halt.
“Victory assailed by appealing to the over-sensualized churn in society,” Mortimer declared. Then his affect shifted quite suddenly and unnaturally as he stuck his pointer finger into the air, “a pox to my success, however, for stooping to such degradingly low levels.”
“What is a pox?” The woman in the passenger seat looked at her companion in confusion.
“Hey Mort, you in some sort of trouble again?” It was Herbert, Mortimer’s official arch nemesis.
“Oh dear,” the blonde’s blue eyes widened in concern, “he looks like he has been assaulted! Dear sir, do you need a ride?”
“Assaulted? Baby, he about killed us!”
“To the post!” Mortimer ignored Herbert’s prot
