He lunged at me with the slab of raw meat, but little did he know my capacity for adroit maneuvering around such weaponry - a skill no doubt sharpened during my perilous days as captain of the bobsledding team. I leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding a gush of pork grease as the hunk splattered against the side of the car wash - and in the same motion, somersaulted across the hood of his battered Fiat, hoisting my Skechers at just the right angle to connect with his sodden chin, and fell the poor sap for good. I recoiled in disgust at the sight of his inert, befouled frame sprawled before me, tinged bright orange by the glow of the adjacent neon sign. I wandered off, in search of a king-sized malted milk, wrongly thinking the night couldn't get any worse.