“Fireball is a devious bastard. Grabs your attention, makes you feel all warm inside, and then BAM!” I smack the table. “Trouble. That’s what it is . . . just trouble.” “Fireball is like the bad boy you should stay away from.” I nod. “If Fireball had a mode of transportation, it would be a motorcycle, and you know Fireball wouldn’t wear a helmet.” “Or a condom,” Cora adds. “Fireball is too good for a condom. For any protection.” “Fireball says FUCK condoms and then shoots its load on your back.” I gesture with my hand. “And it’s a cinnamony load.”
