C'mon Lil' Devil: The Story of a Romance Novelist and Yatil Green

There was this stoner to her left, short-cropped, brown hair and a Renaissance-type face smoking some reefer.
He yelled from some little Caprice, “Don’t you wanna crack at it, sweet tits?”
She said, “No sir, no sir, I’ve got a new epiphany without yer joint.”
The green light clicked on and she rolled up her window.
She picked up the pen after it had rolled down the visor into her lap.
It was time for a new story.
And here it was: Yatil Green!
She remembered the name from somewhere in Florida.
A plumber?
A TV Star?
Either way, Yatil Green.
The car to her left sped off with the man still smoking reefer, rubbing his angular chin on occasion; and she shoved in a CD.
The Cult played “Fire Woman.”
She thought, Yatil Green.
Yatil Green.
At least three hundred seconds passed and the song changed to “Lil’ Devil.”
Salsa-mix Yatil Green, she thought.
A dancer.
Is Yatil Green a dancer?
Does Yatil Green have cancer?
A dancer with cancer?
A pimp with a missing leg?
A pirate pimp? Yatil Green.
A blue, pulsing vein in dashboard light?
The story would eventually unwind itself and she’d be able to sell it off by January.
Yet as quickly as the pen fell, our driver fell in love with old Yatil Green.
She saw it all now, and by God, Yatil made her list.
She took a hard left and got snug behind the stoner's car; which was actually a Buick Skylark.
She followed him a few miles to a gas station.
“I knew you’d come along,” the guy said, “You’re in love with me.”
By any chance, she asked him, what's your name?
“I dont' have a name.
And how was your epiphany?”
She grabbed the joint from between his first and second fingers.
“How's this gonna be?” the stoner looked unwarrantedly smug.
I'll call you Yatil Green, she said.
“Yatil Green?”
Yes.
“The old Miami Dolphin's Wide Reciever?”
Then, our little driver took the stoner into the gas station bathroom and sucked him off.
That was great Yatil, she said.
“You're crazy,” he said, “but I'll play along.”
You're a pimp with a wooden leg, she said.
“I don't know if I'm comfortable with that.”
Don't be a pussy, she said, you're Yatil Green.
“Don't be a bitch,” he said, “That's my last g.”
Under normal circumstances, she'd have just smoked his weed, and went home to rub one out.