The stink got me retching again. You never got used to it. They used terms like coppery or a taste of iron, as if death had a flavor of the week. Metallica clinging like satin glue to my blade. I was tempted, sorely, to lick it clean but Ray’s situation had cured me of that … maybe. The urge was still there and there was, as they say, no accounting for taste.
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