Porsche Man: The English Premiere West Ham

Porsche Man left for candy land with a spring in her step knowing Emerson’s commitment status.

“Where did Emerson go?” She looked around, hearing silence, continuing her path down temptation lane, reading the signs, “Goodie Son Park That Way.”

“I am sure the aristocrat Mr. Toffee is a true gentlemen,” she confidently concluded sampling an addictive promotional morsel.

Hopping up the stairs like an American theatrical tease, the West Ham United hammered using her fist, alerting the host, “I am here!”

A jolly spectacle festive figure emerged giving Porsche Man, a giddy attack.

“Porsche Man,” Mr. Toffee exclaimed welcoming the guest, “enter my home sweet home.”

Escorting her into his party parlor room, Porsche Man felt the friendly guy vibes and followed him into the fantasy setting, built on guilty pleasure fetishes.

During the first half, the meeting did not show any goals until the luring atmosphere, made Porsche Man tipsy and she performed a flirty mistake which the wife, Mrs. Toffee caught, bare handed.

“I realize you declared your independence,” Mrs. Toffee introduced herself, “but we should get a goal for that move.”

“What move?” Porsche Man surrendering gesture sent an innocent message, “Star Spangled jazz palm reading?”

Quickly rejected, Mrs. Toffee retreated and the two separated, honoring a break. Not much time passed and the pair reconvened.

Porsche Man continued showing her strong defensive skills transitioning goal successes that the Toffee’s claimed to be earning into complete failures. Then in casino tradition the tables turned when the Toffees played the ‘In God We Trust’ card.

“I told you I made a bet, honey,” Mr. Toffee honestly remarked.

“And what did it get you?” Mrs. Toffee replied.

“A goal,” Mr. Toffee explained pulling a ticket out.

“The Toffees got a goal from a bet,” Porsche Man quietly broke a confection bar off a plant, “that cannot be good.”

A bet was a very weak excuse for a goal and Porsche Man developed a stronger defense continuing to swat away all the Toffee goal chances.

“Porsche Man,” Mr. Toffee grinned, “the Misses and I were wondering besides being attractive have you had any other goals?”

“Well, Mr. Toffee, in the states I was a Captain,” she said.

“A Captain?” Mrs. Toffee replied

“Yes, Mrs. Toffee a Captain,” Porsche Man paused, “a dance Captain.”

“Very impressive,” Mr. Toffee commented.

“It is on the same level as placing a bet,” Porsche Man dropped a hint bringing the situation even.

“That is true,” Mrs. Toffee agreed.

As the afternoon delight engagement proceeded, Porsche Man could hear rain pelt down the roof. “It is really getting nasty outside,” Mrs. Toffee noted, “you may want to stay the night.”

Having a goal due to once being a dance Captain, Porsche Man started gathering her belongings, making an escape towards the exit.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Toffee inquired, “we are equal, Don’t you want to stay? It is the weekend,”

“Isn’t that why you got your points deducted?” Porsche Man asked.

“Who told you we had points taken away?”

“Newspaper,” Porsche Man answered getting anxious, “Tommy, can you hear me?”

“Whose Tommy?” Mr. Toffee quizzed Mrs. Toffee.

Capitalizing, seizing the moment Porsche Man snuck out the front exit confronting a storm, “I asked, Tommy, can you hear me?”

A lonely strange lighted room having a slim glimmer of hope responded, “I am Tommy, I can hear you, now take off your shirt.”

“I have a goal,” Porsche Man screamed, “I do not need to remove any clothing!”

Marching, presenting army strength, Porsche Man invaded the underground and boarded a train, “I am strong, tough, and I do not back down,” she blurted out loud.

“That means you are La Machin,” an unknown character clarified.

“And I have three goals today!”