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Petulia

The teary eyes are never enough. For a great entree he needs sushi-grade kidneys, and even the cheap leftovers are hard to get. He’s lucky he got the Clearing House chef gig; at least they have a source of fresh meat.

He picks the back lock and quietly lets himself in, imagining how McMahon would have asked this. “Time’s up, Petulia Gibbons,” he says. “How did you spend your ten million?”

“I got everything I wanted,” whispers last year’s winner, lolling bloated in cocaine ice cream and Benjamins.

“Time to give a little back,” he replies, and marks out an incision.

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