“Then get your ass in gear and get up!” She gave the sofa a frustrated little kick, jostling me. “I’m in mourning. You shouldn’t curse at people in mourning.” She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re in danger of gettin’ on my bad side, boo.” She didn’t have to say more than that. The last person who got on her bad side ended up with four slashed tires on his car, a headless rooster on his doorstep, and a strange, persistent rash. “I’m up,” I grumbled, rousing. “Terrorist.”
