WHEN OUR STORY BEGINS Stephanie is in the process of pouring a whole can of beer down the back of Turner’s shirt. The young gentleman has been somewhat impolitic in a recent invitation extended to the lady (“Hey, slut! Come funnel a beer with me!”), and her reaction is, admittedly, merited. In fact, she has been hoping to pour her beer over the top of his head, an act that would be equally merited. This is, alas, impossible, since, given his height (six feet five inches, even) and hers (five feet four and one half inches), such an act would violate the laws of physics. For which reason she has settled for his back. Her concession, however, goes unnoticed by Turner. He is pissed.
Turning, Turner tips his own glass deliberately down the front of Stephanie’s blouse. “Goddamn slut,” he exclaims. “You better watch yourself.” Yet the fact of the matter is that Stephanie, being a self-respecting, strong, and independent woman, is watching herself. For which reason, likely, she wipes the beer off her chin and retorts, “What did you just call me?” Turner, however, misses the cue for his apology entirely, and opts instead for an apologia: “I called you a slut, because you look like a slut, Slut.”
Now both are pissed. Stephanie rejects Turner’s tautology at once, and resolves to assert her (relative) sexual purity by striking him repeatedly. Yet with our omniscient, sober perspective on the situation, we may confidently observe the rashness of her decision. He is, after all, an enormous human being. As he notices her tiny arms flailing against his chest, the giant grabs her by the waist, hoists her up and over his shoulder, and attempts to throw her out of the open first floor window. Fortunately for Stephanie, he misses his mark. Together they crash upon the beer-soaked floor.
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