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He took another long swig of whiskey to wash his over-the-counter pain reliever down. Aside from fear of infection and concern that he was being ripped off, this was the worst part of having a black-market vasectomy reversal: no prescription meds to get him through recovery. But next to the fear of losing his balls, this was a relatively minor consideration.
He liked his balls. A lot. And had every intention of keeping them, but he also wanted to give Agnes a child. If he was honest, his motives weren't entirely altruistic. He wanted to be a father. Even from the beginning, he'd wanted it more than Agnes had. He'd been the one to put his name in first, and then he'd worked on Agnes until she'd given in.
He sure as hell hadn't expected it to turn out like this!
So here he was in a scuzzy motel in Buenos Aires, with a ceiling fan whirring above him, a rapidly melting (and leaking?) glove full of ice pressed against his nether regions.
He wished Agnes were there. She would comfort him. She'd freshen the ice-glove (yes, it was leaking). Bring him soup so he wouldn't have to hobble to the hot plate and open his own can.
Oh, Agnes!
He picked up his browserpad and created a new e-mail account. Frank Richardson.
"Agnes," he wrote, "I miss you so much, Punkin. And I'm so sorry I just took offg. I cant tell you wh6y, but believe me that you you will be happy about it. At least I hope you will. we were ment to be parents. together and im king to do war it takes to makee it hapen."
He was crying now, piteously. And his writing was atrocious. Couldn't type worth a damn. He deleted it all. What he really wanted to do was apologize for abandoning her right when she needed his comfort and to let her know that he loved her.
"I'm sorry.He bcc'ed her, and hit Send.
Punkin"
Then he took one last slug and passed out.
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