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Freda Thurlowe was not medically trained. In fact, it was a considerable challenge to her to handle a fingernail filed too close at the corner. But there she was, balancing a bottle of Merthiolate in her left hand and dabbing at Tuesday Noir’s bleeding crotch.
“Jesus Christ! The son of a bitch damn near chewed you up and spit you right out on the floor!” she exploded. “What kind of a mangy mother-fucker would bite chunks out of a girl?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Tuesday said wearily. “He was one of those smooth-talking cats when we haggled over the money, but once he got his pants off and caught sight of me bare, then he just went right out of his tree.”
Freda dabbed on some more of the medicine and was gratified to see Tuesday wince. “If it burns, that’s good,” she said. “My grandmother always said the burning was a sign the germ was dying.”
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.