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The Saga of Sewerage, Pt. 2.
bawkbawk
teaberryblue
Just to start off, I would like to wish a very happy birthday to atomicfiction, who is 21 today. And who was a major proponent in my getting an LJ over five years ago. You've grown up into a wonderful, bright, talented person & I am proud to know you. <3

Secondly, thanks to all the people who left condolences. I really appreciate it.

Just when you thought it was safe to open your inbox...







This is getting more awesomely awesome by the second.

The minute the gal walked into my office, I felt the temperature spike like the mercury was going to pop out of the thermometer.

They say there's something about motherhood that makes a woman more attractive, but I say it's widowhood. I don't know about the rest of you suckers out there, but seeing a pregnant belly never struck me as a great big neon "available" sign the way a little black dress and tearstained cheeks can do.

And this one, my friends, was all widow. And all legs. And those legs ended in pumps so shiny that, well, let's just say that what they say about black patent leather isn't entirely myth, why don't we?

But I'm getting off the subject. "Mr. Smokeless?" the lady asked, sniffing into a tissue that she held with nails lacquered so red that for a second I thought her nose was bleeding. "Mr. Smokeless, I have a problem, and they said you'd be the one to talk to. You can call me Fusie."

"
Fusie?" I asked. I'd heard my share of slick nicknames, but this was a new one. "What's that short for, babe?"

And that dame gave me a look so cold I almost reached for my jacket. "Transfusion," she answered. "Transfusion Unrepentant."

I blinked. For once, somebody else had me beat on the name. "All right, Fusie," I agreed. Hell, there were worse nicknames you could get from Transfusion.


Also, if you like monster movies, The Host was awesomely awesome.

The Host, minimal spoilersCollapse )