Stripes of pink, white, blue, and green run across this broad's head from front to back ... and not in subtle tones. These colors glow with electric type vibrancy like they are bein' fueled by her glower, which would be truly intimidatin' if it were, perhaps, pasted on a homelier mug ... like, say my own. It has been some time since Nunzio and I hung out on the streets, but it is clear the type of punks they are currently breedin' is a strain mutated noticeably from our early days when "colorful" referred to our language, not our hair!

"Well, well," the sergeant sez, lickin' his chops a bit," what have we here? It seems we are to be a part of the army's experimental program which is specifically testing the truth in the saying that the only thing meaner than a fighting man of Possilturn is a woman! Now I want all you men to watch your language during training. We have a laaaadyyyy in our midst."

From the way the skirt bristles, it is clear she is not used to bein' referred to as a lady ... and doesn't care much for the idea. Smiley isn't through with her, however.

"Tell me, little lady, what is that you've got on your head? If it's something that crawled up there and died, I hope you've had your shots 'cause it doesn't look like it was any too healthy!"

"It's called 'hair,' Sarge! What do you have on your head?"

"It isn't what I've got on my head that's important, 'emit," the sergeant smiles, "it's what's on my sleeve!"

He taps the stripes that mark his rank.

"Three up, three down. You know what that means?"

"That you're a Master Sergeant, Sarge."

"Close, but no cigar. It means you owe me fifteen pushups, 'emit, five for each time you've called me 'Sarge.' Hit it!"

I expect the skirt to give him an argument at this, but instead she just drops down and starts pumpin' out pushups like it's what she has been after all along ... and maybe it was. I don't know what kind of breakfast-type cereal this broad patronizes, but she is doin' a notably better job of rackin' up her pushups than the Flie brothers.