My heart pounded like a baby's head on a hardwood floor.
"Is everything all right in there?"
I had just groaned in ejaculation while standing in the middle of my elderly neighbor Mrs. Jenkinson's white-tiled bathroom floor, and I felt terrible. Unfortunately for her and her now me-encrusted fuzzy toilet seat cover, the night had just begun, and would not end until that goat was mine. Springing forth from the well-maintained commode, Mrs. Jenkinson's frail gray body was flung against a wall as I shoved the door open with the force of five Adolph Hitlers. In full sprint, I made my way directly to the manicured backyard and tracked that lumbering Baphomet down to a rose bush in a far-off corner.
"Oh you're mine now!" I yelled, tackling the uncouth beast. "Party time's over!"
And with the snap of its pitiful neck, I was four-to-six weeks away from a brand-new mohair suit.
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