I met Madge in my first week of medical school, 9 AM on a Friday morning with a bitch of a hangover. She definitely made a better first impression than I did. She was remarkably small, grey, with skin the texture of cold, damp leather and a pair of sadly sagging rat tits. She was 80 years old and had been dead for at least three years, pumped full of formaldehyde, and stored in a freezer until it was her turn to be cut up.
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