“Well,” said Billy. “It’s got plenty of teeth for everyone.” And he rang off.

After that, there were no more calls.

*  *  *

The next day, Todd was surprised to wake up in his own bed. He had no idea how he’d got there, but he wasn’t too fussed. Somehow he had gotten into bed and slept. He still felt like he’d been pushed off a cliff, and he was still wearing an (apparently full) adult diaper, but he’d had worse hangovers and, more importantly, he wasn’t sitting in his study typing.

He examined his fingers in the mid-morning light. They were battered, bloody, and looked like he’d used them to claw his way out of a lead coffin. But they were his again.

Todd slowly lowered himself out of the bed, trying not to look at the sores on his thigh, and ran his hand absently over his beard. It felt filthy and dull, as did the rest of his hair.

“Time for a bath,” he said, and made his way gingerly into the bathroom.

As the bath was running, Todd treated himself to a few minutes on the toilet, enjoying—despite his very painful ass—his first unfettered bowel movement since he didn’t know when. He drained a tooth glass full of cool clear tap water. He got up, flushed, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

The face in the mirror was not a pretty one.

“Shit,” Todd said. “I look like Charles Manson.”

He rummaged in a drawer for a pair of Janis’s scissors and began to hack away at his facial hair. He went over to the bath and poured in everything fragrant that he could find. He turned the bath off and got in.

Immediately an orchestra of pain started a symphony in his nether regions. Todd just gritted his teeth and waited for the agony to subside. When it finally did, he closed his eyes, ducked his head under water, and counted to a hundred. Then with a gasp he sat upright in the bath again. He repeated this process several times until he was sure he could now run his hands through his hair to wash it.

An hour later, washed, shaved, and with enough antiseptic cream on his nethers to stifle a horse, Todd felt able to venture back into his study, cautiously like a man who fears there might be a dead body in the room. What he saw was a far from pleasing sight. The desk and floor were littered with crumpled wrappers, empty bottles, and crushed cartons. There were spots of blood on the rug and on the typewriter. And the place stank. It stank of Todd, and what came out of Todd.