Dood... I busted up when I read this, LS.

I agree. You never know where a prostitute's mouth has been lately, but I can make a pretty accurate guess.

Of course, the guy should've gone for her clit afterward, which makes for spine-tingling armchair reading. Pulpy prose ahead:

"After the hooker bit his tongue and wouldn't let go, he punched her repeatedly in the face until she backed off. Then he, growling, his mouth bleeding, went for her clit, fastened on it with his teeth, and held on tight. Screaming, she pummeled his head with her fists, but he replied with shaking his head wildly, like a lion tearing into a zebra carcass. Not until she emptied her bear repellent on him did he come up gasping for air, eyes red and tears streaming down his face. She grinned all of a sudden, seeing his loins unprotected before her face, and like a four-feet long pike she closed in on the shriveled worm dangling there."

The next page shows a couple of brawny guys riding black steeds through dusty scrublands, smoking. In the distance, two blonde American gals carry water from a well into a barn. One is waving and rather big-breasted, the other is in the process of swaying her hips rather provocatively and shows a nice racket even from behind. It's worth pondering why the drawer never thought to put in the farm animals or even the farm itself. It's as though he ran into the deadline or had pressing business elsewhere all of a sudden.