It had become a matter of life or death, or so Roxy thought. (Or maybe the bourbon had thought it, while it was inside her head. But she quite agreed with the bourbon. It was a sage and venerable advisor to her, like Dumbledore to Harry. Except her advisor regularly went down her throat. So like Dumbledore and Harry.)Anyway, the point was, Jane’s butthole had achieved critical tightness. It was already on the brink of fusing shut. If it tightened even the tiniest fraction more, it would invert or something, and Jane would surely die maybe she guessed. It was the job of a dutiful bffsy and her magical alcoholic advisor to intervene.She would have to strike when Jane was most vulnerable. She would have to strike while Jane was baking.