It sure sounded good at the time.
But after ten hours of skipping naked, joyful and gold-free through the New Mexican desert in search of the Blue Butterfly of Happiness, Shigley finally admitted that the thing was more elusive than advertised.
"AY, pinche uese ese cabron, todos los santos y la Virgen MARIA!!!" she bellowed, wrestling away Ellie's last bottle of Sauza and staggering away to collapse under the nearest saguaro.
"Got a date with a bottle...[hick]...and a cactus...[hick]...never do know when the next Blue Butterfly of Happiness lands on your heart and then LEAVES your ass...[hick] little butterfly, she whaps you in the eye, [hick] hope you've got a bottle to help you get by..."
It was sick, it was twisted, and it went on for hours...so long, in fact, that Ellie awoke from her own stupor and, with excruciating effort and a filthy pen-knife, cut several mud-encrusted pieces out of Pingry's socks to jam into her ears.
But nothing could mute Sheila's hideous, off-key caterwauling. "Stevie--STEVIE! Wake up and put these damn things on NOW!!" Ellie shoved two hastily-but-deftly-fashioned polyester blue "wings" into Steve's sleepy mitts.
"Wha..huh...I...wings...AAGGGHHH!! I'm not wearing these--I'm a CELLIST for God's sake!!"
"That has nothing to do with it as you damn well know!!" screeched Ellie. "She'll never shut up unless she catches a glimpse of the farging Blue Butterfly, now STEP UP TO THE PLATE, MAN!"
Sighing heavily, Steve strapped on the ridiculous, oversized contraptions and was promptly turned into a foul-mouthed, blue polyester tumbleweed by a gust of desert wind. It would be days before they found him--or Ellie, who, having pulled off her ruse, had set sail for Belize--incidentally one of the few countries to sport blue butterfly postage stamps.
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