OOO! OOO! Let me try!
Just as she reached her pickup and was fumbling for her keys, Michael leaped from the bushes and grabbed her from behind. One hand over her month, he drug her to the rear of the truck. She kicked and squirmed, but his grip was too strong.
"I won't hurt you," Michael whispered in her ear. "I just need you to get in the trunk."
She bit down on his finger. He yelled out in pain and removed his hand from her mouth.
"What? You idiot!" She screamed and tore herself from his arms. "Pickups don't have trunks."
In shock, Michael released his hold on her. She turned to face him.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "You don't have to play bad-boy for me. I know the real thing when I see it." She patted him on the butt and climbed into the truck and started the engine. Michael, his plan ruined, watched on in silence. He had disappointed the Great Round One, he just knew it.
The window of the truck rolled down, and out came the sounds of some very tasteful classic rock. "Are you coming?" the girl said.
Michael shrugged, then walked around and got in on the passenger side.
As they drove away, the chubby stockgirl hung her head out of the truck window and shouted, "Woot!"
As they drove on and on through the cloud-filled night, Michael realized he couldn't find the courage to speak to the stockgirl, who he knew held infinite knowledge to help him in his quest beneath her mohawk. Instead, he searched for ways to pass the time while the truck barrelled towards its unknown destination.
After a half hour of staring longingly at the stockgirl, attempting to pluck up the courage he would require to speak, Michael realized the stockgirl's eyebrow ring casted donut-shaped streams of light throughout the vehicle whenever the hole of a Cheerio-shaped cloud passed directly overhead, allowing the full moonlight to find its way into the passenger compartment. He decided to count the divine projections they danced across his lap, mocking his cowardice.
He reached two hundred and eighty-two projections before all self-confidence seemed to be stripped from him by the demonic projections. He ceased his tally, and decided to focus on the classic rock guitar riffs bursting from the truck's speakers, threatening to tear his toupee off his head. The stockgirl kept her eyes on the road, murdering the occasional unfortunate bug on their windshield.
As the sounds of Styx poured over him like water, Michael witnessed the miraculous apparation of the Wise Cheerio in the sky. He was using one of the clouds as his body, and had transformed it to suit his purposes. Michael gazed up in the sky at the 747-sized Cheerio in fear and awe.
The Great One smiled before speaking. "Fear not, Michael Priest. But you must sing if your journey is to continue."
"Sing?" Michael squeeked, terrified.
"You must conquer your greatest fears now! It's a literary rule!"
"I realize the wedding was a terrifying experience for you, what with the mysterious gunslinger appearing during your Karaoke performance and stealing the first half of your manuscript in front of your guests, but you must face your fears!"
"The nut stole the first part of my manuscript?"
You should never argue with the Great One, Michael realized, before opening his mouth. "OH MAMA, I'M IN FEAR FOR MY LIFE FROM THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW! HANGMAN IS COMIN DOWN FROM THE GALLOWS AND I DON'T HAVE VERY LONG!"
"I sure hope you write better than you sing," was all the stockgirl said before the world went black and Michael knew no more.