Squeaky Couldn't Kill a Fly Let Alone a Ford

"The next time you see me," he said, "you had better bring some jam."

Johnny walked. Johnny smiled. Johnny stopped and Johnny turned. The fact that he did so only after stopping must be stressed. "Fuck you say, dude, I better bring some jam?! You don't be telling me what to do because nobody tells me what to do, dig?! I suppose the next thing you'll be ordering me to do is to choose a certain flavor, huh?!"

"Ah, boyle, you're catching on Johnny, I say. Catching on real swell. Bring along something especially cherry."

"There you go trying to order me about, again. I told you not to do that."

"Do it now, I say. Or the toast will go down dry."

"And whose making toast, you poot sniffer, you?! Yeah, I know all about it."

"How, I wished you'd leave such private matters to more enclosed environments. But not to stray too far from more pressing concerns, you, if you must know, will make the toast and spread the jam and do it with a smile, or your other testicle will rest on my platter alongside the omelette that you are also going to make."

Johnny stared. Johnny turned. Johnny walked away.

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