One time at a pool party, Garcia and Bobby were drinking mai-tais and thinking about doing some titty-fucking when they saw Hunter talking to John Perry Barlow by the grill. John Perry Barlow was in control of the fire; he had also brought the meat, which he had killed with a rifle made out of liberty and butchered with a knife made from freedom. Hunter wanted a burger and a frank because he had been eating healthy and he deserved a treat.
“Mine can beat yours,” Bobby said
And that was probably true, mostly because John Perry Barlow is a big farm dude. And because he was waving his pistols around to emphasize a point he was making at the time, but to John Perry Barlow’s credit, he had only fired the guns two or three times, which he would argue was “the absolute fewest times I could have discharged my weapons at a pool party with children present.”
Garcia mulled it over.
“How would we even…,” Garcia said. “Would we poke them with sticks?”
“Well, that’s how we race the groupies. So: yeah, sure.”
Except Hunter heard and got insulted, so he moved somewhere they speak the wrong language and didn’t call anyone for seven years.