He's been bottling, the man in the red sweater. Doesn't fucking work though; their brown whites are being ripped off every time he drops the match, the smoke detector tester rag, in the bottle, and places the other on top. They're too whelp to yelp, they just fall in and have their hairy albumen pushed in after them. Can't sell that. Can't sell that. It's not whole. It's not the whole set. Superficial damage, can't sell that. It's not whole.
It fucking burns somewhere between the throat and the stomach, wherever that might be. It's not bleeding. She blanks. No blood, no deal. "I need blood. No blood, no deal."
Just fucking tell me. No, don't. No blood, no deal. I can wait. Tell me when you have blood, a bottle, a match or a deal. The hair's short, but it could do with being shorter. Half. More than half. It won't make any difference to the process of bottling, but it should be shorter before being bottled. It's thin hair.
With a bottle of surgical spirit in one hand, an eyeball in another, and a clot of cotton wool in the first or the second, the urge to scratch has never been stronger. Scratch. It's safe. It's clean. It'll heal. It hurts anyway, so scratch. There's never been a better time to do what you shouldn't. You're doing one thing you shouldn't anyway, so do two. It won't even bleed.
You're not even there, are you? It's too light. It's right that it burns between throat and stomach, wherever that might be. It should be pulled out. Made to burn more. Truth is not all it promises to be.
(Wanker).