I could’ve taken the ‘he’s in charge of the meat and I’m doing everything else’ line and run with it.”“Darling ... my love ... I’m sor...y. I don’t know what else to say, except that you’re not helping.”“That’s not entirely true. I’m unburdening myself of a reservoir of bitter sarcasm filled to overflowing by an unnatural spring of unworthy jealousy. Better to grab the bailing bucket now so I’m not still drowning tomorrow night. What you’re right about is that I shouldn’t be dumping the excess on. Serial killers had fascinated Mary since her childhood and she had felt a certain connection to John Bilk from the moment she read his published findings on the Haddonfield murders. But when they had met in person, Mary discovered that her appreciation of John ran much deeper than simple professional admiration. It also transcended the fact that she was married at the time. They were in bed together four hours after first meeting, fucking like there was no tomorrow. Mary had always found that. She was a fancy kisser, all licks and nibbles and tongue-swirls, and soon my phallus was splitting the water like a periscope, stiff as a maypole. “Would you like a handjob?” she asked. “How much?” I said. “Three hundred?” I remembered the tariff she’d charged Jake. “Cheap,” I said. She knew her way around a maypole, and before long I was panting and heaving my hips. “Do you want me to suck it?” she asked. “How much?” “Five hundred more.” “What the hell, it’s only money.” She was an. I was tempted to see what would happen if I insisted that Rabbit wasn't a kumquat."M.O.T. means —" I started to explain."Oh, fuck you, Trick Sterling," she cut me off again. "I'm smarter than you are. I know what an M.O.T is." But — but Rabbit's not a... I mean, I've been over to Rabbit's house for Christmas," I protested."His father's Catholic, his mother's Jewish," she explained, suddenly growing wistful. "He says he promised her he'd marry a Jew. That's why we're not, you know..."Oh, my God,.