I walk into the kitchen. A blue-faced woman in a bright spring dress hung over the dining table with a zip-tie noose. Intestine mush sliding down her left leg, dripping into a complementary fruit basket. Her bloated eyes flicker and light up. "Ya know, my husband was an Army man. His name was Johnny. Served in dubya-dubya-two, that he did. Musta been knowledgeable 'bout certain... aspects of death and insanities." She croaks under the weight of her living corpse slinged about. "I heard the Nips were downright cannibals up until Enola Gay proper-fucked 'em straight. Stripped 'em down, cut off their peckers, and grilled 'em like feral spooks. Damn shame my Johnny had to go that way." She shudders, flinging post-mortem shit every which way.

"Oh, sorry, dear. Say, could you be a doll and take a gander up my blouse? I'm not feeling so fresh--Oh don't be such a prude, anyone with half a brain can tell you're a full-blown psychopath. No use in feigning morals. Oh well, where was I? Little Boy fell like an apple from a tree, drenching poor Hiroshima in holy ash and I went to fetch a bit of wire. Then--well, you know. It's a horrid world of flesh, my boy."

She rattles her lame heels.

"Ain't nothin' here but trouble..."