Her curves are sweeping, yet in control, like a Olympic figure-skater’s tripl— nay, quadruple Salchow. In slow-motion— when you’ve just taken a long drag of some prime Maui Wowie. Mabry is that fancy exotic dish you tried once on your trip to Madagascar. Delicious, but just cannot recall the name of. You absolutely must taste it after that long puff— but cannot. Sorry.

So, back to the demure girl in class— you see her drag a hapless, scared, and speechless junior behind the bleachers. You narrow your brows. Then your jaw drops, Mabry has just sunk her J-hook into the junior’s chest and ripped his heart out. And licks the blood as she makes eye-contact with you from across the field. Again, in slow-motion. Somehow, the kid is still alive. And smiling.

She’s the story you tell you grandchildren on a cold wintry night.

Mabry. Whattagal.