“My sex would be of the fairer variety,” you answer adding a little feminine perturbation at being asked.
When you arrive at the hospital, you tell them you’re feeling much better and can wait your turn for further help in the emergency ward’s waiting area.“Like free tickets to a freak show, ain’t it?,” the man sitting next you says with a jumbo blue sharpie sticking out just above his eye and through the bottom of his temple.
“How is that possible?” is all you quietly muster in response.
“Sorting room at the post office,” he answers, almost as if it were self-evident.
But if this were a freak show you’d have to guess that the main attraction was the man arguing with an admittance receptionist about insurance or something. His clothes are totally ravaged, his New Balance sneakers have melty soles, his hair looks like a faded clown wig in its 6th week of chemotherapy, but most unsightly of all, his skin not only looks peely and sun-burned but it has the same shimmering effect the broad side of a tuna would have.
Your curiosity turns into questioning and he’s actually civil enough to tell about his failed attempt at getting into Guinness for “Most Items Microwaved at One Time.” He asks you in a confidential tone, “Would it be alright if I could show you something outside?”
If you trust someone who would microwave 58 flashbulbs, go to page 184.
If you’d rather wait patiently for service at the hospital, go to page 160.
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