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“It’s not my day,” he thought. Running late for an appointment with his divorce lawyer, trying to hurry through a through a tasteless meal at a pitiful diner, he’d sliced a two inch gash in his palm while trying to saw through a part of the overcooked carcass of an animal that had surely died of old age.

Now he was standing in a small filthy bathroom trying not to touch anything, bathing the wound in warmish water and some sort of pink foam, while the greasy, sweating cook who’d prepared his meal stood uncomfortably close to his right.

“Here,” said the cook, pivoting slightly to his left, “this will take the sting out of that—it’s sterile. I saw it on Survivor.”


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