I usually start, "so this dame walks in..." but I can't do that this time. Â I can't tell if it's a dame or not first off. Â Its got them cat ears and a tail so I'm going with Miqo but the specifics elude me. Â The smell hits me like a liver spasm and I beforehand didn't even know a liver could spasm, but I figure it's deeper than a stomach turn. Â You know that moment, when you first saw a picture of some poor schlep who'd been laying under a bog for an odd millennium or two; not so much rotted, but all desiccated, twisted and leathery? Â And you think to yourself, "wonder what that would smell like?" Â I think I gots an idea: like this cat. Â It sits down and behind this mop of white dreds I can see her face...I decide its a 'her.' Â The kit's not all there in the chest see, flat, like the heart-rate of her hairdresser. Â But she's got that sly girl's face with them big yellow cat eyes, but them Keeper ones, you know, like a normal cat plus LSD. Â So there I am: Â in thinly veiled revulsion and she tells me about her case. Â The shit that comes out of this kit's mouth...you ever heard profanity in past pluperfect tense? Â Up till then, neither had I. Â I mean it's clear this cat gots smarts, but the kind of smarts that makes you want to empty your revolver into your own leg so that you can steer the conversation into something a little less taboo....
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