Donna Herford was about to go out of her mind. Her female coworker had just been splattered on the front of a city bus a step from her even as two suddenly homicidally insane male coworkers chanted about doing gruesome things to her as they stalked after her like zombies. She had managed to skip across the street in her bare feet without stepping in any broken glass, rusty nails, or disease-bearing heroin syringes, in the hope that on this side of the street the world would have regained its sanity.

No such luck. The security guard who wanted to beat her with his baton and her worthless job-slacking male secretary with this sizzling hands carrying a commercial coffee pot and chanting about pouring the contents down her throat followed her, only to be mowed down by speeding motorists, who were now stopped in a blood-smeared traffic jam screaming at each other—screaming the same mind numbing malicious slogans in that halting voice that most addicts only acquired after a lifetime of heroin addiction.

She looked back in open-mouthed horror at the tangle of stalled cars, broken bodies and droning zombie commuters, who were all now suddenly reduced to a single phrase of communicable thought, continuously repeating what should have been compulsive urges that any sane person would suppress with a nod, a smile, or a shrug.

Donna did not say what came to her mind first, no less repeat it, as seemed to be the fate of every person on this street, except for the ones who just sat in their vehicles and hit the horn every two seconds.

She looked farther off at the skyline in an attempt to gain some clarity, and in the hope that when she looked back down at the terrible seen before her that the chaos will have gone. This chaos threatened her sanity far more than the constant ringing in her ears under such stress had done for the past two decades since that Pantera concert jammed up against the amplifier stack.

“You are so beautiful!” came a man’s husky voice from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a large bear of a young man, perhaps six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds—the hairiest man she had ever seen. For some insane reason the first thing that came to her mind was how disgusting it would be to clean the shower stall at home if her roommate was this hairy!

Then he said it again, in that hollow way, “You are so beautiful!” and reached out with one great paw for her breast.

She stepped back quickly in her bare feet and felt her breasts jiggle, and realized to her horror, that her D-cups, which she always strapped down tight to avoid the ogling stares of lonely men, had come loose in her run to safety, drawing the attention of this huge Bluto-like creature!

“You are so beautiful!” came his soulless salivating drone as he stepped toward her and grabbed the shoulder of her Kashmir blouse, a 200-dollar blouse Donna was only too willing to run out of as she fled down the sidewalk arms crossed over the organs that were about to get her killed, or worse.

The alley to the right seemed to offer sanctuary. If she stayed on the street boobs a bouncing with all of these madmen about she was likely to be mobbed. Besides, in movies and TV shows there were always fire escapes that you can grab and she just knew she could climb more quickly than that big brute.

Down the alley she darted, and, lo and behold, a fire escape extended toward the alley floor at its end, hanging low enough that she could seize the bottom rung and hoist her slight body up before the big beast man had even lumbered to its base. On she ran at breakneck speed for the base of the painted steel ladder, remembering her days climbing in the tree house Daddy had built for her and her times on the playground with Granddaddy climbing the jungle gym.

The man could be heard droning on plaintively now, but still with that heavy salivating quality which sent a chill of fright coursing through her body and convinced her to let go of her breasts and run flat out down the empty alley where no creepy man was in sight.

She was not as fast as she remembered being as a little girl though. In fact her balance was a little off—Ouch, oh, that’s gonna be a black eye. This is horrible, I’ve become a Don Rickles joke!

Self conscious, and having been punched in the eye by her own anatomy, Donna Herford crossed her hands back over her breasts and ran with girly ineffectuality for the fire escape as her bra rode down around her slim hips.

Donna was now carefully running kind of side to side and the hairy beast was gaining some ground. But that was fine; she was nearly to the wall. She stopped and looked up to grab the base rung of the fire escape, and then realized to her sinking disappointment that the level of the alley had dropped imperceptibly and the base of her suspended stairway out of Hell was as high as a basketball net.

“Oh my God” she groaned, as she turned, arms crossed, and looked down the alley at her hulking pursuer, who was still chanting with every third step, “You are so beautiful!”

His right hand was extended like he was a creature in some C-list movie, her blouse still tangling his hand, while his questing fingers, like five nasty dirty-nailed eels, tore through the fabric that once felt so comfy on her soft shoulders.

She looked around for something, anything to fight with, and spied a narrow board, about twice as wide as a strip of baseboard molding, and rough and splintery to boot.

“Hell yes!” she snarled with animalistic fury as she seized the board in two hands like Conan the ass-kicking Barbarian grabbing his sword. Her momentary surge of confidence was muted somewhat when her breasts flopped back against her ribs and she realized, that even with this board in hand, she was still just a soft little girl and this big hairy bastard was not slowing down at all.

He came closer and she panicked and ran to the left where the alley widened into a little dumpster area, and put her back to the cold surface of the blue dumpster and screamed her fury, “Stay back motherfucker—back!”

This just made him excited and he extended both hands as he turned to follow and lumbered on, bearing down on her like Papa Bear coming for Goldie Locks.

“You are so beautiful!” he intoned hollowly as he took the final fateful step that would place her between his big begrimed calloused hands.

For some insane reason she thought to herself as she swung her roughhewn board, What does this guy do, scrape out mucky basements for a living?

And with that oddball thought the ringing in her ears reached a pitch, but not so much that she could not hear her man-slaying board whistle toward his big stubbly jaw.

Check back in next week for Bluto versus the Hipster Bitch from Hell.