Humpy McSaddle greeted the following day with a sly, clownish smile on his face, and it never left. Not that day, nor in the weeks that followed. She came to him most every day now, never at the same time. If she didn't appear for several days, McSaddle would stomp around the slaughterhouse, out of his mind with the clap, tearing at his hair plugs, bending at the waist to contain the nuclear urgency of his ever-ravenous hump tentacle.
He never knew when she might appear-morning, afternoon, evening. He might be having Taco Bell, and he would feel her near. Or walk by himself to inspect ... Continue»