What Was Premeditated Murder If Not Calculated

"i Feel Like, Like Pudding," Iggy Groaned. "pudding With Nerve Endings. Pudding In Great Pain."

Tears Were Dripping Onto My Dress, But I Wasn't Making Any Sound. There Was No Sound To Express Thid Kind Of Pain. I Didn't Want To Move, Didn't Want To Do Anything. Fang Was Not Waiting For Me Out In The Living Room. Tomorrow Morning, When I Woke Up, Fang Would Still Be Gone.

My Life Would Never Contain A Convenient, Pain-saving Plan When It Could Stretch A Problem Out Into An Endless Agony Of Uncertainty And Torture.

Am I Tough? Am I Strong? Am I Hard-core? Absolutely. Did I Whimper With Pathetic Delight When I Sank My Teeth Into My Hot Fried-chicken Sandwich? You Betcha.

I Whirled Around And Saw No One. No Psychotic Mad Scientists, Anyway. "jackpot, Max! Jackpot!" It Was Was Fang, And He Was Giggling Hysterically. For Those Of You Just Joining Us, Fang Doesn't Giggle. Especially Hysterically. So For A Second, This Seemed Like One Of The Weirder Dreams Of Recent Days.