Most of the killing during anyone's childhood is for royally stupid reasons, Debet. There are remarkably few non-stupid reasons for this ridiculous species of ours to shed each others' blood.

Yeah.

If I'd had another few dozen words, something about drugs and sneakers would have made it in there. I'm sure there's a better way to say it...something about not even having the pretense of...something.

Hubby-To-Be looks nauseous. "I thought blood didn't bother you," I say woozily.

"It does when it's mine."

Susan, I'm so happy for you! Yay!

Debet, that is a great piece. The Ryan White line sells it, right off.

Speaking of stupid reasons to kill people, everyone I know in London is okay.

edit: and erika, the police procedural lost its creator today; Evan Hunter died. Goodnight, Ed McBain....

Deb, I'm glad to hear your Londoners are okay. After I lined up my Bronzers, I shot to RozK's journal, and was so glad to see she'd posted.

I wondered about your peeps, Deb. Good to know.

She wants to pull her knees into her chest, but she's tried that before. She needs the cold tile against the small of her back and thighs. It's all that links her body to the outside world, the only thing other than the pain.

She matches her breath to the pain's rhythm and tries to slow her heart rate. Hopefully the painkillers will kick in before she runs out of cool floor in the bathroom.

"At least you're not pregnant, right?"

She doesn't look up. He'll pay for the flip tone. Just not right now. Maybe in a couple days.

ita! Damn, your next one should be her ripping his nuts off -- slowly -- for saying that.

Aw, man, Deb. I'd not read many of his books, but we who are fans and writers in that genre-ette owe him a big debt. I lift a virtual glass and send him some virtual bagpipes...he wrote till practically the last second, which I think is very cool. Susan, congrats! The death thing: I remember being very confused when my mother called 1968 "the year we lost everybody" because I was very young and didn't get that the "we" was, like, Woodstock Nation, not some giant familial disaster. Not long after that, John Lennon was shot. If my mom talks about Bobby, there's still just the one.

My mom was a huge McBain fan- she'd read all of his 86th(?) precinct books. I emailed her to tell her and she said she hadn't read it anywhere yet, and how did I know? I told her Buffistas are better than a news wire.

Your mom's a crime junkie, too? Mine is very impressed by my ability to look at crime scene photos in Practical Homicide Investigation I tell her it's all her fault...Wambaugh in utero and all. (And thank God, one can't smell a photo.)