You wipe the vomit off with her jacket before leaning in for another attempt begin rummaging through her pockets, carefully navigating through her skin-tight denim.
The first pocket was fruitless, the second too. Now you slide your fingers into her back pocket. You feel the keys. Your senses are numb, your fingers are tingling. You are so close. You grab the Winnie the Pooh key chain and slowly start pulling. You get the key chain out, but the keys are tightly wedged in her too-tight jean shorts. You dig your fingers in one last time in an attempt to free them as your mother mumbles the name of a man you have never met. She giggles and turns around, only to see her son, not the hand of a past love, groping her ass.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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