Warlock was a wise enough student of human nature to know that the word nympho had captured the audience. “Anyway, I tailed her for a month using a van rig with a periscope capable of taking pictures in the air vent on top. I tailed her to many a love nest but couldn’t chance pictures through any windows because she was always accompanied by two Doberman pinschers. One fine June day I followed her into the country north of Detroit and there on an old gravel road, through a spotting scope, I saw her meet a very big, very black Detroit Lion football player whose name you would recognize. The adulterous couple slipped off into the woods with a blanket and picnic basket with the guard dogs. You should all know I’m from northern Michigan and spend a lot of time hunting. I circled the couple downwind to avoid the dogs picking up my scent. I was moving through the woods like a fucking Indian when I heard a noise. I raised my binoculars to which a small camera is attached. There they were in a position too embarrassing to describe….”

“Oh for god’s sake tell us,” Bib howled.

“Up north they call it dog-style.” There was much muttering, swearing, amazement at the perfidy of women. “Well, I got my pictures in a hurry but then my luck changed. The wind switched and the dogs picked up my scent. They were between me and my car a quarter mile away. I hightailed it in the other direction. I could see the Detroit River in the distance when the dogs closed in, and I had to shoot them both. I ran through the yard of a vacant cabin and out onto a dock. There was a rowboat but it was locked up tight with a chain. I saw the football player coming around the cabin in his undershorts at a dead run, looking a lot bigger than Marion Motley, Jimmy Brown, Earl Campbell, all put together. I coolly put my exposed film in a small canister and stuck the canister in my mouth. I dove in the river and swam for Canada some two miles distant. Lucky for me I won my letter in swimming at Michigan State. I heard him yelling from the dock but I had won the day. I called the auto executive from the other side and he sent a man to pick me up. I had a photographic studio blow the pictures up to poster size. When the wife and her ace lawyer, Feingold, were confronted with the photos they shit in their pants. End of story.”

“I would have shot the nigger on the dock,” one of the guides said with a southern drawl. There was a chorus of head shaking assent.