“Trouble with you is, you even f**k slow.”
“I do not!” she screeched, pounding on her brother’s right arm as he made the turn onto Byrne Avenue, prior to heading north on the old unnamed county road, in the direction of their parents’ farm over near the county line.
“Do, too. Zack said so. Said you screw so slow he can watch your pimples come to a head.”
“You prick!” Irma screamed, as she went to open her door and jump out of the truck cab, but Elmo turned on her automatic lock just in time.
Irma—never the most rational member of the Effertz family, and most certainly not the best-looking of her parents’ seven children—sat there pawing at her bumpy forehead, as if more acne was rising there, and said, “Well, I heard you don’t screw too fast, neither. Heard it from plenty of girls.”
“T
