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Harry Kitchener

‘Oi,’ with a grimace between his lips. Brim of hat obscuring shifty eyes. ‘I got lungs?’
            I peer in, revolted, at the ruined inner lining of his coat. Lungs, three of them, blackened with cigarette tar, hanging melted from safety pins. Why an odd number?
            Intestines wind in and out, wherever can be squeezed. Stomachs rumbling, insatiably hungry. Skin hangs in edge gnarled banners. My own being stings with empathetic discomfort. Were his tools no more than cutlery?
            ‘And,’ grabs my hand, splattering to the flesh of his second nicest heart. ‘Feel that? Still a pulse.’ Said proudly, releasing my hand so I don’t vomit too near him. Dirty the stock but never his shoes, after all. That’s a joke, right?
            ‘And eyeballs…’ Squishes the jellies, letting them ping back into shape. A little sinew drips off the bottoms, spills onto a pair of dry lips. Teeth not included. How much must they cost?
            The salesman picks his nose sheepishly. The one on his face.
            ‘We do limbs too,’ he tells me, dragging out a wagon. Arms and legs dangling like cooked spaghetti. Toes painted gangrene black. Fingers fashioned into several rude gestures. Is that a wing?
            ‘What’ll it be?’ he asks, gesturing to his store shelf, bargain bin, organ library. I point at the least deflated eyeball, other hand prodding my empty right socket. Are you sure the colours match?
            ‘Okey dokey.’ Murmured in slight disappointment as I’m whacked over the back of the head. Nothing to break my fall but a grubby operating table.