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Only through torture could Herbert find pleasure. His wife knew this, of course, having suffered under his warty thumb for two decades. By the day of her fortieth birthday she had made up her mind to chop it off.

The evening progressed as usual. The drunken butler embarrassed himself again. Veal cutlets. Finger bowls. But strapped beneath the table where Herbert’s wife sat was a butcher knife.

When he comes round my end, as he always does, and puts his hand on the table and holds my head, I’ll grab his arm and chop his thumb off, she thought.

And all went according to plan.

Date Written: August 01, 2002
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 3

06/1/2004 John Slocum (3): This is not Snow's greatest work.
01/24/2005 The Rid (3): Mluh.
02/1/2005 Mr. Pony (3): Okay.