Frank sat down on the little stool and wiped his brow. All this experimental biology stuff is hard work! Mrs. Hutchkinsons' feet squirmed nervously in the stirrups on either side -- that damned anesthetic must be finally wearing off. Why do they waste money on that crap, anyway ?
Six hours or so earlier, Mrs. Hutchkinson showed up to her dentist's appointment. She remembered the gas mask coming down, clearly enough, and then nothing. She still couldn't open her mouth at all, but that was normal -- it always took her a while to regain facial muscle control after a visit at the dentist. She would take a lot longer than usual this time, actually, because Frank had helpfully forced down her craw a fist sized ball of wet cement, approximately the consistency of fresh burrata. It had certainly set by now, ensconcing every tooth in its permanent resting place.
The dumb bitch could stand losing some weight anyway, thought Frank, as he lit a cigarette. Why do people feed the dumb cunts so much anyway ? Everywhere in town, up and down the street, nothing but overfed dogs and overfed women, it's getting so a soul can barely get through a honest psychopath's workday without breaking a sweat.
Frank was built like one of those WW2 recruits, a length of rope basically. He put out his cigarette on her left sole, right under the thumb, producing some lively thrashing, and then reached for his biologist kit. He retrieved the crotch protector and put it to the side -- a clear but thick plastic half ball, with a mess of straps coiled around. It wasn't yet the time for this, it goes on at the very end, with the stained and soiled miniskirt, the dirty knee high stockings full of holes, the well worn stilettos and the shoulder-off blouse with the vertical slits to expose the tits.
Mrs Hutchkinson didn't know it yet, but she was to be abandoned behind the railroad tracks as it were, among the "red district" crack whores and bums. With her clenched teeth and clad in that locally-typical geddup she should have quite a lot of fun for a good while, Frank figured. But before that could begin, there was the little point of the ticks to be seen to. Frank grabbed the tweezers, put on the magnifying glasses and turned on his headlamp. He radically retracted Mrs. Hutchkinson's preputial fold with his left index while holding the clitoris firmly depressed under his thumb. He reached with his tweezer-equipped right into the tick box, caught one bugger and finely applied it right in the space. The animal went right to work, and soon received a brother and sister on either side.
A couple of hours' attentive, painstaking work later, Mrs. Hutchkinson's intimate folds were thoroughly studded with six or seven dozen tiny arachnids, all happily sucking away the blood of life like so many piggies placed by divine providence at the celestial trough. Frank hooked the protector over her swelling snatch, forced the clothes on and dragged the flailing, strangely silent woman to the beat up pick-up truck waiting outside.
He would spend the next month or two picking off crack whores, removing their ticks, and analytically analyzing patterns and things of that nature to better understand his urban environment. Just like a real scientist, what!
