...she hit the gas, but she'd never leave him--not the lead singer of the band. Nor any of them for that matter. She'd tried once before and it nearly broke her.
Not one to waste time, she drove the pachydermolated Plymouth ("GodDAMNED Plymouth!!") to the nearest airfield and hotwired an army Loach. It was barely big enough for the job, but would have to do.
She dropped the hook with a deft flick of her fiddler's wrist, catching Bob by the seat of his pants--the poor man stretched by now into a weird Gumby shape by the conflicting affections of the transvestite horde.
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