What it took was not a great deal of effort. The real problem came in the form of Doreen, their raven haired designated killer of anything resembling fun. I swear the girl had a bible in her purse and was likely to pull it out at any minute.
The brunette had an itch to scratch. The blond had some old flame to forget. Doreen had a mandate from Heaven to protect any lingering vestiges of honor or innocence still residing within the shapely bodies of her friends.
One more beer and I had a plan. Two more shots (each), and the ladies of prurient interest seemed likely to go for said plan. Three stray comments about waterfalls, creeks, and the beach came amidst four large diet Cokes for Doreen.
Poor girl probably hadn’t even wiped by the time we had our prizes in my 68 Thunderbird, destined for destinations unknown to her chastened mind. I might of heard her yell something as we tore out of there in a hail of gravel. Maybe I didn’t.
It don’t matter much. We all have our mandates.