Downhill. MISS: And Flights of Angels [END]

"Down's quicker," you tell Cheryl. "Watch over us, Lord, your poor naked daughters," you add, your eyes turned upward. The tires squeal as you accelerate into the turn toward the downhill road.

For the first mile, following the curves of the county road through the hills, you look like you're gaining on the fire. Cheryl's titties bounce as you take each curve and bump.

"One more mile," you say. "Then we're in the flats. We're gonna make it, Lord willing."

But when you round a tight outward bend, you see a curtain of smoke and flame across the road. It's too late to stop, so you lean on the gas and hope you make it through. The car bumps up and down over the burning embers on the road, and you grip the steering wheel tightly. The car fishtails and skids to a stop. A tire has blown.

"Oh no, Mary!" Cheryl cries out. "What do we do?"

"Hold my hand and pray," you tell her.

The wildfire smoke seeps into the car and you hear a tire blow. Your vision blurs and you hear heavenly music.

"Look, look, Cheryl, the angels are coming!" you say.

You see their wings beating, blowing back the smoke, singing as they come, reaching out for you.

And just as you hoped, when they catch you up to carry you away, you feel their hard wieners rubbing against your body.

"Yes, yes, take me," you say. "Take me."

You rise away on their wings to Heaven, one angel's wiener in your love hole, another angel's wiener in your dirt hole. Heaven. Heaven.