What was that game called? It was probably this universal concurrence that had saved Billfords practice if not his head following the ghastly denouement.
That looked like it might work. He crawled into the parlor and that was when he heard the drone of an approaching motor. She did not show up with his medication until nine oclock, and by then he needed it quite badly so badly that he had been thinking of going to his stash. And then, as the numbing euphoria of the injection began to spread, he thought almost with humor: Some lousy Scheherazade I turned out to be.
He could smell the sweat of her recent exertions, and while he actually liked the smell of fresh perspiration he associated it with work, hard effort, things he respected this smell was secretive and nasty, like old sheets thick with dried come. lions on either side of him.
He rolled forward and then the hubs of the wheels stuck solid against the sides of the bedroom door. Trouble was, the nasty thing had a way of escaping and coming back time after time, in one form or another.