Fuck you, you fuckin’ crusty fucker. An eloquence of fucks. Adjective. Verb. Noun. There was an English lesson in there somewhere. She was fifteen and suspended from school. Irony.
Her teacher was, according to Summer, a fuckin’ perv, but the real reason for skipping was a shift change. At three o’clock, the lines formed at the east gate, past the wooden security shack and the twelve-foot-high fencing with barbed wire. The line snaked back, curled around the plant, engines running, while the short-of-breath security guard, in a grey Stainmaster shirt and pants, checked the truck beds and trunks, searching for stolen bumpers and hand tools. The line could take forty-five minutes to clear.