Cujo - Stephen King

The dog was grinning in at her; he was grinning in at her, Cujo was his name, and his bite was death.
The scream had to come
(but Tad’s) or she would go mad.
She locked her jaws against the scream the way she had locked her throat against the urge to vomit a few moments ago. She struggled with it, she fought it. And at last her heart began to slow down and she knew she had it licked.
She smiled at the dog and raised both of her middle fingers from closed fists. She held them against the glass, which was now slightly fogged on the outside with Cujo’s breath. “Go get fucked,” she whispered.


Badass! The relief makes it so much funnier by contrast too. Talk about nervous laughter.