'Hell, Ma …'
'Vernon I'm only trying to help you out. We'll have to find you some decent shoes too.'
Sweat starts to pool in my ass. The lights are off, just one ray glows sideways through the door onto these green tiles. The air reeks of flesh. Flies guard two historical barber chairs in the middle of the room; white leather turned brown, cracked and hardened to plastic. <a href="http://www.1buycart.com">buy android 2.2 tablet</a>I check them for arm clamps. I'm in one, Deutschman is in the other; his hands creep around under his gown. He seems happy to wait. Then a whistle blows outside, and the meatworks' marching band assembles on the gravel in the yard. 'Braaap, barp, bap,' band practice starts. One majorette I see through the door is about eighty-thousand years ole, her buns smack the backs of her legs as she marches. My eyes flee to a TV in the corner of the room.
'Look, Vernon, he doesn't have arms or legs, but he's neatly groomed. And he has a job, look - he even invests on the stock market.'
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