"You've a large malignant mass," the Dr told her. She appeared gaunt in the feeble glow of x-rays despite being more than a little over-weight.

She was full of words, good words, too but she said nothing at the news biting ******* her lower lip.

She paid for the visit with a nearly maxed-out credit card. She had never been sick like this before but she had to admit, at least to herself, that she always seemed a little broke.

She lived well, she thought, at least relatively.

But she'd been increasingly more self-conflicted lately and the sensation was that of a gaping and festering wound.

A part of her seemed panicked and another part didn't care at all and, more strange, from the recesses of her bowls, inflamed and angry, came an obscene and lustfully sneering cheer.

Her stomach was queasy. She wanted Jesus Chicken anyway. She pulled into the drive-thru, not for convenience but for anonymity. She ordered the #1, add cheese, with waffle-fries. She also requested several packets of mayonnaise.

She ate greedily thru the traffic with her ******* ready.

She thought, thank God for speaker phone, and called a dude that tried to **** her at a party once because she knew he sold coke. She'd had gotten his number from one of the guys he'd been with that night.

She nearly screamed when he suggested that maybe they could work out a deal.

She heard herself say, "I'll be right over."

She pulled out a pack of unfiltered Pall Mall 100's, lit one, inhaling deeply, then choke-laughed unexpectedly when the DJ said, "this just in folks,

Democracy....,
she's dead."