"Well, there you are!" A woman appeared from out of nowhere (as if one of the Armani leather jackets had suddenly given birth). A big-boned Nordic type of the general Liv Ullman ilk. When she attached herself to Keith's arm like a mosquito to your uncle Elmo's bald spot, it occurred to me that the lady looked enough like Betsy to be her sister. I suddenly needed a Di-Gel.
The woman smiled in my general direction; one of those wide-open, all-encompassing smiles worn by the kind of woman who smiles at fire hydrants.
. . . I wanted her stripped naked, covered in Karo syrup and tied securely over an anthill.
Chapter 62 of Larry Duplechan's Eight Days A Week (one more to go!):