All that blood and fat and bile wrapped in translucent shower curtain skin like a poorly rendered sausage casing, he already looks like meat, now Laura wants to cut it up. ‘It’ll make him easier to move,’ she says, dismissing the effort of severance, ‘then maybe we can feed him to some pigs.’ Doubtless she imagines that somewhere in the city is a poorly guarded piggery, full of famished swine with a stake in ironic justice. I run my hand across the bath’s enamel lip, the perfect porcelain craftsmanship, and tell her, babe, there ain’t anything eats the teeth.

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