Say what you like about Roxy, she knows how to start a bar fight. From An Iceberg Tale:
“‘Scuse me,” she began, tapping not Ivy but Sly on the shoulder as a means to get both their attention. “I realize we’re supposed to make allowances because you’re a plant and all, and you don’t get how this whole thing works with normal men and women getting together, instead of, say, some slime mold from the Malaria islands. But I say ‘Hey, if she’s gonna hang out with humans, then somebody should clue her in. Otherwise she’s just going to keep making an ass of herself, over and over, time after time, man after man—after man.’ So here’s the truth, Pammy, direct from me to you: a healthy red-blooded guy will grab at anything once, particularly if it’s rubbing up and down on him like a three-dollar whore. That’s not true love, it’s not even grooving on your lemon scented beauty. It’s just what they do. Reminds them of—Excuse me—”
A wisteria had come up behind her and Roxy paused to swing it into a headlock.
“—As I was saying, they’re not overcome by your beauty or anything. It just reminds them of all those daydreams they had about the naked gal in the magazines when they were fourteen, locked in the bathroom, beating off to Daddy’s Playboys. It’s got nothing to do with you. To go the distance with—oh, let’s say a guy like Sly here—you gotta have something more than bare skin and a set of knockers going for you. You need to connect with him as a person—which is gonna be real fuckin’ hard to do after I twist your head off and stick it on my tailpipe!”
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Tags: Roxy Rocket, Roxy Sutton