There is a great wisdom handed down across generations, from father to son, from brother to brother: never stick it in crazy. In this case, crazy was a natural redhead with the most lick-able freckles I’d ever seen, scattered across a very healthy figure.

“Are you planning to kill me with those?”

“Only metaphorically; I don’t know precisely how it happens, just that it’s certain, it’s tomorrow, and that if I choose, you’ll rise again to serve my needs.”

“That’s more of a double entendre than a metaphor.”

“Do you want to fuck me before you die, or not?”

I stuck it in crazy. I lost count of how many times I rose to serve her needs.