Why were Knight and Vaughn offering me coffee and conversation instead of a rubber? They should be fired and replaced with wingmen who’d actually help me score. Not that I had any trouble in that department. “Just throw me a rubber before you leave, will ya?” “Give your cock a timeout and wake the fuck up.” A muddy boot found its way to the side of my head, threatening to squash my skull. Vaughn, AKA the devil on my shoulder. On anyone’s shoulder, really. I had a love-hate relationship with the motherfucker.
