Take 42

The buxom blonde ran just behind her piercing screams. She was the serial killer’s perfect ten. Parts of her were heaving. What wasn’t heaving was disheveled, quivering, or agog. It seemed like she had been running for hours. She could hear the crackling of the underbrush and the heavy pant of her pursuer.

Wait! cried a distinctively cultured British voice.

I just want to take you home to have tea and crumpets with Mother.


Well, perhaps a quick billet-doux in the shower with my butcher knife, but definitely after tea.

Her only response was another piercing shriek and a panicked sally deeper into the underbrush.


Will someone please find me an actress who can fall down?

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