Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. I always fall on my feet, you know. I have been dreaming of your body and you night after night. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. The practice has been common for thousands of years. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. I’ve just seen him.
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