A Study Of Modern Political Correctness; Volume Two

By BJ Whittenbury

A STUDY OF MODERN POLITICAL CORRECTNESS; VOLUME TWO
(Bed-Time Stories For Grown-Ups)
This is the follow-up to A STUDY OF MODERN POLITICAL CORRECTNESS (OR HOW TO OFFEND EVERYBODY IN LESS THAN 200 PAGES)
This book is a collection of fourteen short stories (word count; 96, 513)
The stories range from the bizarre to the ridiculous, from steamy and erotic, to dark and dangerous. Vampires, Werewolves, Demon-Slayers, Killer Puppets and Psychotic Females run riot, while Vestal Virgins, Female Assassin’s, Horny Swingers, Unfaithful Kidnappers and Cheeky Seventeen-year-old Schoolgirls run hot, and even the feisty female God, Yahweh, drops in for a chat. And a beautiful girl becomes a Beautiful Angel.
Johnny Romero has been dumped as the story introducer/commentator, and a wide range of people have been engaged to comment on the stories, including a few characters from this book.
A selection of the favourite characters from the first book are back, and female assassin, Susie Kalatrini will confront female serial-killer Jessica Van Ouyen, while the delightful yet naïve Reiemi bumps into Caligula. Cheeky schoolgirl Taylene Thomas investigates the Phone Book, and she is surprised by how many rude surnames there are. Melissa Christoph and Brianna Weston are at it again, and a Vampire will suck, and a Werewolf will howl, and a whole bunch of new characters will wonder what the Hell is going on. Humour is the main ingredient in the book, while a little sex is thrown in to spice things up. Arhhh, actually, not a little sex, a lot of sex.
For the Bold and the Brave, step right up; for the Easily Offended, slink off into the shadows, for when night is at its darkest, strange and scary things can happen, and when the day is at its brightest, most people are probably working.
FOOTNOTE: No characters were mistreated or harmed during the production of this book.
(ps; except for those characters who were mistreated and harmed.)
FOOTNOTE: No Beautiful Angels were mistreated or harmed during the production of this book.
(ps; A dog got hit by a car, but it was the dog’s fault.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: BJ Whittenbury
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370628070

BJ Whittenbury

Brendan Whittenbury lives in Melbourne, Australia.A STUDY OF MODERN POLITICAL CORRECTNESS VOLUME TWO is now available. July 2019.

Book preview

AUTHORS NOTE

All characters in this publication are fictitous and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This publication is intended for an adult audience, and features coarse language, depictions of sexual activity and adult themes.

PROLOGUE

It was a Saturday, or a weekday when a very tidy blond walked into the staff room and said, I shall say this only once, hello everybody.

Somebody asked, Is that Reiemi?

Taylene Thomas turned to the Somebody who had asked the question, and she said, Yes it is, how did you know?

The Somebody said, I read the first book.

Taylene was surprised, and she looked at the group behind her and said, "Hey people, the Somebody who read the first book is here with us."

All the characters looked at the Somebody, and Brianna Weston asked, "Excuse me Mister Somebody, in a world where there are billions of people, and you are the only person who read the first book, why would you admit to reading it?"

Mister Somebody said, Errr, I can’t remember why I read it, and I can’t remember why I admitted to reading it.

He must have been as high as a kite to read the first book, Melissa Christoph whispered, then she asked, Are you on drugs?

Yes. Mister Somebody replied.

Do you have psychological issues? Taylene asked.

Yes.

You must be quite disturbed to have read the first book. Susie Kalatrini said.

I believe I am.

Are you a crazy fucker? Jessica Van Ouyen asked.

Mister Somebody pondered, then replied, I would say no, although my doctors would say yes.

Reiemi was listening to his responses, although there was only a single response that had captured her attention, and she asked, I shall ask this only once, Mister Crazy Fucker, do you have any weed?

Mister Somebody looked confused, and he said, I don’t know, because I don’t know where I am.

Taylene said bluntly, Hey Tossbag, you’re in the prologue of the second book.

Reiemi suddenly realised that she too, was in the prologue of the second book, and she declared, It must be October, 2017, for I, I who is me, am also in the prologue.

Taylene said, Reiem, it’s June, 2019.

No, this cannot be, Reiemi muttered, For in the authors biography, it is stated that the follow-up book would be released in October, 2017.

Taylene shrugged her shoulders and said, Well, what can I say, I mean it’s June, 2019.

Reiemi pondered and asked, So me, me who is I, am almost two years late?

Well, you’re here now Reiem, so everything’s cool. Melissa advised.

Reiemi faced Melissa and said, I rushed back from ancient Rome 500BC, because I read the authors biography, and I assumed it was October, 2017.

Since I was the Author of the first book, and the Potential Author of this book, I was glad to see Reiemi, because she was one of my favourites, so I said, It’s cool Reiem, I mean you’re here now, so we’ll start the follow-up book.

Reiemi looked at me, and in a difficult to define way, I was glad one of my favourite characters was looking at me, and she asked, Do I need to be here, or can I go back to ancient Rome 500BC?

Well you have to stay, because you’re in a story.

Reiemi seemed deep in thought, then she said, "Excuse me Person-Who-Writes-This-Stuff, in my last story, I lost my virgin status, got kicked out of the House of Vestals, smoked weed, got dicked by a half-man half-goat, jacked-off a half-man half-horse, and then became ancient Rome’s first stripper, so I would prefer to not be in this book unless you write a nice story about me."

Shit! … Reiemi is in a story in this follow-up, although I have her bumping into Caligula, and if you bump into Caligula, things don’t normally tend to pan out too well. I was confused, and I said, I’m confused, then I said, I’ll start working on your story Reiemi.

Taylene looked at me, and she asked, Are you confused because you’re wearing a straight-jacket?

I wasn’t confused by that, because I knew why I was wearing a straight-jacket, so I said, No.

Melissa pondered, then she asked, Why are you wearing a straight-jacket?

I wanted to bullshit to Melissa, although I knew that she was a character in my mind, so maybe she could tell when I was being honest and when I wasn’t being so honest, so I sighed and said, My doctors said that it helps me stop harming myself, and errr, ummm, everybody else.

Brianna leant towards Melissa and whispered, I don’t want to be in the follow-up book.

Melissa thought about it, then said, In our story, he’s going to ramp it up a bit, so maybe we’ll play it out and see what happens.

Brianna was concerned on many levels, and she turned to Taylene and asked politely, Taylene, I don’t want to be in the follow-up, so could you take my place and ramp it up a bit with Melissa?

Taylene looked at Melissa, and she saw the curvaceous blond smiling seductively, so Taylene said, Yeah, I can dyking down with a bitch who looks like her, and besides, the author has promised me a lead role in a stand-alone book, so I’m going to do whatever he tells me to do.

Shit! … I was hoping that Taylene hadn’t remembered my promise, because I hadn’t even started that book yet, although I was interested that Taylene, my seventeen-year-old schoolgirl, would make herself available to ramp it up with the delectable Melissa.

Taylene said, I’m nineteen.

I said, What?

I was seventeen in July, 2017, so now, in June, 2019, I’m nineteen.

Shit! … I made a mental note not to write any more characters who could think clearly and logically, and I said, Well your story will be kinda like a flashback, and you’re still seventeen.

Brianna whispered to Melissa, Come on Mel, I don’t want to be in the follow-up, so let’s get going.

I heard the whisper, or I read it in the previous line, and quite anxious now, I said, Brianna and Melissa, I can put you guys in the first story, and then you can both go back to your husbands.

Brianna screwed up her nose and declared, No way, you’re not putting our story first!

Why not?

If I have to be in this book, I refuse to be in the first story!

Why is that?

If anybody reads your stuff, Brianna began, and she glared at Mister Somebody, then said, If they read your stuff, they throw it in the bin after the first story, so I refuse to be first!

I made a mental note not to write any more characters who gave me a hard time, and I mumbled, They can’t throw it in the bin, because it’s an E-Book.

Well, delete it or whatever, but I refuse to be in the first story!

I looked at my vampire, Satanachia, and I asked timidly, Vamp, can you do the first story?

Satanachia huffed and said, Fuck off.

I said pleadingly, Ohhh, come on, I’ll let you bite someone.

Satanachia glared at me and asked, "What part of fuck off don’t you understand?"

I took that as a no, so I turned and looked at a few of the new characters in the follow-up book. I assumed that new characters would be eager to have their stories told, although my Female Demon-Slayer saw me looking at her, and she said, Sorry pal, I’m not going first.

One of my Six-foot Killer Puppets said, Get serious dickbrain, you don’t put killer puppets first! I glanced at my Unfaithful Kidnappers, although as a group, they all turned away and mumbled, Nahh, sorry, find someone else. One of the Unfaithful Kidnappers pondered though, then said, In my acting classes, they’re teaching me that I need to become my character, and I need to emotionally invest in my characters journey, so what is my motivation here, I mean what am I trying to achieve?

Jeez, I made a mental note not to write any more characters who were taking acting lessons, because I didn’t know what motivated them, and I didn’t know what motivated me. I said, You kidnap someone because you want to make lots of money really quickly.

Okay, that sounds more like Method Acting or the Chekhov Technique, rather than Classical Acting or the Meisner Technique. she stated.

I think she was right, or it sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so I turned to my Foursome, The Swingers, although one of them said, No, sorry, we’re not going first because we’re still trying to figure out what our story is about.

I thought it was obvious. A story about two couples swinging was simply about gratuitous sex and power exchange. One of the female swingers said, I might try the Chekhov Technique in the story, because it sounds cool.

Hey listen, I began, You don’t have to act, because this is a book!

She looked at me innocently and asked, Okay, so what’s my motivation?

I sighed, then asked, Can you take all your clothes off and then get involved in an orgy?

The other female swinger asked, Is that like the Meisner Technique?

I envisaged that it would be more like the Porno Technique, but I nodded anyway. I now had multiple characters who wanted to employ acting techniques in their stories, but what I needed was for any of the freaking characters to step up and get the book started, because my coffee was getting cold.

Getting desperate, I faced my Serial-killer and Female Assassin and asked, What about you guys, can you do the first story?

They glanced at one another, then the female assassin turned to me and asked, What’s the story about?

Ummm, you try to kill each other, I mumbled.

Susie, my female assassin said, Hang on a minute, I like Jess. And Jessica, my prostitute female serial-killer added, And I like Susie.

I frowned, then I said, Okay, well maybe you try to kill each other, or I dunno, hump each other.

If it’s just gratuitous sex and they’re going to hump each other, shouldn’t they be in our story? one of the Swingers asked.

The other female Swinger said, Yeah, we’re all going to take off our clothes and employ the Meisner technique to our story.

I was interested in a female assassin and a female serial-killer engaging with the Swingers, although I wanted multiple stories featuring gratuitous sex, plus I didn’t want my fun-loving Swingers getting killed by Deadly and Dangerous women.

One of the Swingers read that last line, and she mumbled, Actually, don’t put them in our story.

The other female Swinger nodded and said, Yeah, it would be hard to concentrate on an acting technique if we get killed.

The female assassin and the serial-killer looked at one another again, and Brianna said, Yeah do it Deadly, Dangerous women, and the book will go in the bin for sure!

It’s an E-Book. I mumbled.

The serial-killer looked at me and asked, Do I live to see another day?

I made a mental note not to write any more characters who asked tough questions, and I mumbled, Errr, maybe, possibly, I mean you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.

Reiemi said, I shall say this only once, but please Deadly, Dangerous women, please start this book because I don’t like being in October, 2017.

Taylene said quietly, Reiem, it’s June, 2019.

Ohhh yes, Reiemi nodded, then she asked, Has anybody got a joint?

I needed a joint as well, because I realised that I needed to write the first story, although I knew I couldn’t smoke a joint when my arms where tied up in the straight-jacket, and somebody else who was me realised that I couldn’t write the first story with my arms tied up, so I used my imagination, and I imagined that I was smoking a joint, and it was good shit too; and I also imagined that the Magical Pixies and Elves from the Enchanted Forest wrote the first story, and funny, but yeah, I was looking forward to reading it.

UNUSUAL WAYS TO START A BOOK

The auburn-haired woman opened the gate and walked down the pathway, not at all surprised that it was a nice house. Because of her new friend’s unusual occupation, the auburn-haired woman suspected that her new friend was quite well off. She checked her watch, 7.27pm. She was three minutes early.

The dark-haired woman peeked through the curtains, and she saw her new friend walking down the pathway towards the front door. She checked her watch, 7.27pm. She was not at all surprised that her new friend was on time, because in the woman’s unusual occupation, punctuality was expected.

The auburn-haired woman hitched her handbag over her shoulder and prepared to press the doorbell, although she tarried for a moment as she thought about the handbag. The handbag with no weapons in it. She had been tempted to slip a knife into one of the handbag’s compartments, maybe a small cutting knife, or even slip a small pistol into the handbag, but she decided against it. Her new friend’s occupation meant that she would be cautious and suspicious, and it could prove quite embarrassing if her new friend said, Before I let you in, can I check your handbag for weapons. Weapon-less was she, although because of her calm yet adventurous nature, she wasn’t defenceless.

The dark-haired woman noticed the handbag, and Red Flags popped up in her mind. Small knives or pistols could fit comfortably in the handbag her new friend had slung over her shoulder, and the dark-haired woman began to think about her greeting; Hi, how are you? Let me take your coat AND your handbag.

The auburn-haired woman pressed the doorbell, and the doorbell chimed, and she cocked her head, recognising the tune, possibly a Mozart concerto or sonata; and a small smile parted her lips, as she reflected that she had killed to classical music before.

The dark-haired woman felt no need to race to the door and let her in immediately. Her new friend could wait a moment, or a minute, wait till 7.31pm until she let her in. She reflected that she had killed someone at 7.31pm before, and the memory brought on a demure smile.

The auburn-haired woman was tempted to press the doorbell again, because the chime had been quite pleasant, and she wondered whether Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart would be pleased if he knew that his timeless music was now being used as a doorbell chime. She had never killed anybody to Mozart’s music, although there was a long journey ahead, so maybe the day, or the night would come. A strange thought lingered in the auburn-haired woman’s mind though. She had read the prologue, and she was aware that she had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving this story, and she sucked her bottom lip as she pondered, The day or night may come, that is, if I survive this encounter …

Her watch showed 7.31pm, and the dark-haired woman steeled herself, knowing that the opening of the door was only moments away, yet the opening of the door was like stepping into the unknown. Her new friend had a handbag, the contents of the handbag a mystery, yet she knew where her own weapons were, knew exactly how many frantic steps it would take to unveil one, and she too, had read the prologue, so she had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the story, and a curious thought hit her; Will I get a chance to unveil a weapon?

The auburn-haired woman heard padding footsteps, and that could mean that the floor of the hallway was timber, and her new friend was probably wearing trainers. Soon, with her new friend possibly standing behind the door right now, the door would open, and the new adventure would begin. Curiously, she thought of the people she had killed, and that made her wonder about death, because death was final, death was, What’s that, I’ve sipped my last ever gin and tonic? And what, I don’t get to see any more SuperBowls? The auburn-haired woman smiled, for death was a fate, death was a destiny, death was the future.

Enlivened by emotions that has been aroused many times before, the dark-haired woman placed her hand on the door handle, and curiously, she thought of the people she had killed, or some of them at least; and she wondered about death, because she had seen death at close range, she had been the procurer of death, although she herself had no desire to meet death, not yet.

The auburn-haired woman waited, wondering if new friend had any idea of what she would be opening the door to, and the dark-haired woman tarried, wondering if her new friend had any idea of what she would be stepping in to.

Curiously, the auburn-haired woman wondered whether the author liked her more than he liked the female assassin, and the dark-haired woman wondered whether they were any last minute tactics she could employ to get the author favouring her over the serial-killer.

The door clicked, as doors tend to do when opening, and as the door slowly swung open, the women looked at each other.

The auburn-haired woman stood at attention and held her head high, knowing that she would cut an impressive figure under the soft glow of the porchlight.

The dark-haired woman stood straight, knowing that she would cut an alluring figure bathed in the delicate back-lighting of the hallway light.

The auburn-haired woman, of murderous intent, knew that she should allow She-who-had-opened-the-door to issue the greeting, because it may be her last.

The dark-haired woman, bereft of noble intentions, knew that she should greet her new friend, because this could become her new friend’s final greeting.

The women stood motionless, staring at one another.

The dark-haired woman shifted her gaze to the handbag, and the auburn-haired noticed the shifting gaze, and the auburn-haired woman ran her eyes over her, looking for bulges in her outfit, weapon-type bulges, and the dark-haired woman followed her eyes.

The dark-haired woman thought about death, and the auburn-haired woman thought about blood, and the dark-haired woman was surprised when her new friend said, Mozart?

The dark-haired woman cocked her head and said, I’m sorry?

The auburn-haired woman, with dastardly emotions swirling in her mind, asked, Is the doorbell chime Mozart?

Impressed to a minor degree, the dark-haired woman nodded and said, Yes. She wanted to say, You have no idea what you’re walking into, but come, come in; instead she shortened the statement significantly as she said, Come in.

The auburn-haired woman remembered seeing a movie where vampires had to be invited into a house, and after they were invited in, the vampires ripped everybody to pieces. She wanted to say, Yes, thank-you, thank-you for allowing YOUR nightmare onto your premises, although she shortened her phrase and said, Thank-you.

The auburn-haired woman stepped inside, and she saw that the hallway flooring was timber, and she saw that her new friend was wearing trainers. Her new friend was also weapon-less, because her manner of dress would highlight any hidden instruments of death. Her new friend was wearing tight, dark grey leggings, the leggings featuring orange lightning flashes on both hips, and she also wore a tight, white singlet. The auburn-haired woman admired her slender and athletic figure for a moment, and she reflected that she had never killed a woman who presented so alluringly.

The dark-haired woman steered her gaze to the handbag, wondering, although her gaze wandered, admiring her new friend, the woman dressed in a tight, black mini-skirt and a sleeveless white blouse. She looked fabulous, although to those who were more coarse and loose with their language, they would say she looked fuckable, and the dark-haired woman knew what her new friend did for a job, so maybe her manner of dress was designed to appease those who were coarse and loose.

The auburn-haired woman gazed at her new friend’s neck, and thoughts flickered through her mind, and the dark-haired woman gazed at her new friend’s chest, and images popped into her mind.

The auburn-haired woman could visualise slicing her new friend’s neck open and then watching the blood stream down onto her white singlet, and the dark-haired woman could imagine steering a blade under her new friend’s ribcage and watching as blood flowed down the white blouse and dribbled its way onto the black mini-skirt.

Still thinking of ways to impress the author and increase her chances of survival, the dark-haired woman skimmed a hand over her right breast. The auburn-haired woman understood the action, and she undid the top button of her blouse. The dark-haired woman pulled the singlet down tighter, highlighting the shape of her breasts, and the auburn-haired woman hitched the mini-skirt up a fraction, highlighting more of her shapely thighs.

The dark-haired woman reflected that things were out of her control, so she said, Let us retire to the living room.

The auburn-haired woman said, Lead the way.

Not wanting to turn her back on her new friend who had a handbag slung over her shoulder, the dark-haired woman said, Let’s walk together.

Having her new friend blind-sided was preferable, although since the subtle statement had been issued, the auburn-haired woman fell into stride. With measured steps, the two women walked into the living area and stood twenty metres apart.

The female assassin knew that the woman was a serial killer, and she looked at her, sizing her up.

The female serial killer knew that the woman was an assassin, and she absorbed the steely glare, sizing her up.

After fifteen years of being an assassin, the dark-haired woman never panicked or fretted, instead she studied.

Living in a blurry world where fantasy and reality were often difficult to distinguish, and after having killed five people, the auburn-haired woman never flinched or fidgeted, instead she watched.

Due to her profession, the assassin had developed nerves of steel, and she stood motionless, still studying the serial-killer.

Due to her nature, the serial-killer knew that opportunities arose when the subject lowered their guard, although as she held the glare, she understood that with this one, there may be no lowering of the guard.

Music drifted out of the radio, a Coltrane instrumental, the musician indulgently exploring the range and subtleties of his instrument, as the deadly women stared at one another.

Susie Kalatrini thought that Jessica Van Ouyen looked too feminine to be a serial-killer, and that brought a tight grin to her lips.

Jessica Van Ouyen thought that Susie Kalatrini looked too attractive to be a female assassin, and that sent a tingle up her spine.

Susie knew that every rose has its thorns, and she could sense that this serial-killer had many thorns. Jessica knew that all that glitters may not be gold, and she could sense that the female assassin glittered in a dangerous, yet enticing manner.

Thorns prick and produce buds of blood, and Susie thought cheekily, Yeah, go on, prick me …

To obtain gold, there is always a price to pay, and Jessica thought, Yeah, let’s discuss the price …

Susie took a moment to listen to the music, and she reflected that one time she had terminated a target while Beyonce played in the background. Jessica enjoyed the lilting music, and she reflected that one time she had killed someone while Wagner’s, Ride Of The Valkyries blared.

Susie looked at her eyes, the hazel eyes serene, yet mysterious. Jessica looked into her eyes, the eyes expectant, yet guarded.

Susie Kalatrini, female assassin, said quietly, How are you?

Jessica Van Ouyen, female serial-killer said, Very well.

Susie continued not panicking, as she pondered, Good to know, but how would you be with a blade protruding from your ribcage? Jessica continued not flinching as she thought, I’d be even better as a knife severed all the veins in your neck.

To Susie, the serial-killer was indeed a rose in full bloom, although her thorns may prove to be deadly.

To Jessica, the female assassin was indeed a treasure chest of gold bullion, yet the price of viewing the glittering treasure was still to be determined.

The female assassin asked, Do you like the living room?

The female serial-killer replied, A room is a room.

Susie knew that to get from Point A to Point-Shall We Tangle; words would need to be imparted, and being a woman who always moved forward, she asked, Would you like a drink before we engage?

Being a woman who lived in a hazy blur of fantasy and reality, Jessica asked, Drink of what?

Susie was interested that the serial-killer didn’t comment on the stated intention of, before we engage; instead she was more interested in what they were drinking. To her, that meant that in an unspoken way, the serial-killer was consenting to physical activities. She said, Wine, Grange Hermitage, wine from the very top shelf.

Jessica was interested that the assassin had introduced the prospect of physical activity in her third phrase, and that excited her. Before we engage, implied that the physical activity could be sexual, although it could also be gladiatorial. None the less, the drink issue was her major concern. Would the assassin spike her drink and render her helpless? To move forward, to explore the unexplored, one must dance on the edge, and Jessica danced as she said, Top shelf? Why yes, thank-you, I will take a sip.

Susie popped the cork out and poured two glasses, then handed one to the serial-killer.

Jessica saw the cork being popped, and she assumed that the drink was pure and untainted, so she nodded in acceptance.

Susie knew that the serial-killer was watching her every move, and she asked, How are you feeling?

Jessica sniffed the wine, then sipped, and after taking a moment to savour the taste of a top shelf wine, she said, I feel as if I’m about to embark on an adventure.

Susie had no need to sniff the wine, for she had sniffed many times before, and the mellow, enticing aroma was in her permanent memory files; so she sipped, then asked calmly, You’re not scared?

Jessica had another sip, then replied, Fear does not touch me.

Susie looked into her eyes and said, On the adventure that you are about to embark on, fear may very well visit you.

Jessica understood that the remark was a subtly implied threat, and she held the solid stare, then replied quietly, Bring it on.

With a Grange in hand, the assassin studied the serial-killer, liking what she saw, the serial-killer being flesh and bones arranged in a most aesthetically pleasing form.

Sipping again, the serial-killer studied the assassin, liking what she saw, the assassin attractive and athletic.

Miss Van Ouyen, I should mention that when we engage, I like to dominate, I like to be in control.

Jessica Van Ouyen took a sip of her drink then placed the glass on the table, then her gaze rose to meet the assassin’s. As a prostitute, the words dominate and control sometimes meant bindings or restraints, although Jessica had no desire to be bound or restrained by an assassin, especially an assassin who enjoyed killing. Miss Kalatrini, I’ve been a prostitute for three years, so I’m used to being subservient.

The assassin had already established that the serial-killer was fearless, although sometimes, the lack of fear could leave a person vulnerable and exposed. The assassin wanted to fully expose the serial-killer, although with a view to self-preservation in her mind, she asked, If we engage, am I in danger?

The serial-killer thought about the question, because it was an interesting question. They both killed people, and they enjoyed doing it, so maybe each and both were in danger. With a calm tone, she said, This is an adventure, and I can offer you no guarantees.

The assassin thought about the serial-killers response, and she thought about herself, thought about what she had experienced in the last fifteen years. Danger hung in her memories, and the memories dripped with blood. She thought about the complex maze of contradictory morals and principles that made up her psychological being, and she would have liked a guarantee that the serial-killer would not add her to her list, although if you pruned a rose, you may get pricked. Susie felt her nerve-ends tingling, and she knew why they tingled. The greatest thrills, the highest highs came when you risked it all, and a fucking-Gigantic-thrill beckoned her. Trying to keep the excited edge out of her tone, she