Part 7

Yanick Champoux

My desperate resolve was met with fanatic bloodlust. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was making a kind of harmonic balance but at the moment left me rather displeased. Not to mention vaguely worried about the perpetuation of my body's integrity. With a screech reminiscent of the sound of a kitten discovering an electric jack is not a thing to lick, she leaped forward. Which was damn curious, since I was on her left. The sound of broken glass punctuated her encounter with the window, which diligently yielded and let her out where gravity, no less polite, promptly indicated her the way to follow.

When someone is in my line of work, someone is brought to see unpretty things. Over the years, I have become jaded of the sight of the many ways humans may come to need band-aids. Nonetheless, I winced as I leaned out over the broken window to assess the fate of my curvasious aggressor. Her flight had spared her the exhausting descent of ten stories worth of stairs (the elevator, by a quirk of the designer, only went up, and thus has remained on the last floor for the best part of the last two decades). Unfortunately for her, she unwittingly landed straight in the middle of a pound whose owner was known to underfeed his dogs.