Joe Butcher climbed out of that rusting iron gondola in which he lives,
squints, rubs his eyes in the bright sunlight and goes on to the Piggly
Wiggly to cut cardboard boxes for some liquor money.

He's off on another gin run for the femme fatal, Mys Terry the mermaid.
She's passed out on the dinette with a cigarette burning a hole through the
cushion - again. She lost her job as a stripper over at the strip joint. A
tooth flew out of her mouth, landing in a customers drink, she frequently
farts while bending over and there's many complaints about her deep purple
and blue stretch marks, customers remark it looks like tropical fish skin.

Life in the aquatic trailer park has been hard. Living in a marshland at the
end of NASA road is definitely low rent. The water is calm and the boat sits
rock steady, not due to hull form but rather because the bilge is laden with
used cat litter. Joe waits patiently for the next hurricane so he can
salvage a downed utility pole for a mast.

Terry suffers frequent head pains since getting her big hair stuck in a
ceiling fan. She also has incurable hiccups. Her breast implant shifted a
good six inches when she fell over in the Wal Mart parking lot. Jow dreams
of buying a Higgins boat to run a trash route about the local marinas. He's
got a good spot in the local marsh to dump the stuff.