Down in this rancid grotto, where I aid and abet Dr. Süurd in his performance of illegal abortions and related subspecialties, a queer pungency tints our windows. A stench potent enough to beckon swarms of green wasps from upriver, but also dissuading federal investigators from breaching our perimeter and closing the case for good.

I'm wearing new gloves, which extend past the elbow for "sanitary excavations and implantations in the most cavernous of regions." The Orifice belches gray sludge, which we collect on a metal tray to avoid contaminating our sewage. "Better insert some wooden splints," advises Dr. Süurd. "If that collapses, we'll never get back in." I improvise with a reed instrument while the good doctor consults his memoirs, presuming to extrapolate from depictions of high blasphemy. ("What is that noise?")

I smash a window with my elbow. "That was a mistake," admonishes Dr. Süurd. "The vapors will condense into a most unpalatable liquid." And the wasps will likely intercede on behalf of our patient. He gestures towards an incomplete diagram of the upper episomoniphal (bilateral elevation). "We should try that sometime," he muses, imparting a bloody smudge on the trifold. "The proportions are all wrong, but I can adjust once I'm inside."

The patient emits a guttural moan, like steel girders buckling as the ship goes down. Imminent failure. Dr. Süurd pencils a detailed note in the margin. "Iron shards in the heart, I would have noticed," he maintains wryly. "It's this type of thing that erodes my credibility with the other surgeons." (Lesions rupture to ooze pus, and the patient deflates with the hiss of a dilapidated radiator.) "Once, I was up all night removing glass from my own organ." His eyes glint shamelessly with recollection. "Now, that was a formative experience, but certainly not without its impetus.

"You see, I was ravaged by a virulent strain disavowed by most cultures, but classified in my own literature as 'Roticism-B.' Its etiology goes something like this:

"Someday, you'll awaken in a den of whores, half-buried under mounds of pocked flesh, quivering and slithering amid the pervasive stench of moldy vulvas. You may even find your member fixed in a slimy crevice. Pull out immediately, and express your disgust by vomiting on the wench. Point accusatorily and glare disdainfully until you've regained full erection. When engaging, you must be firm: 'Young Madame, your vagina is painfully grating. Fortunately for you, my epidermal seems intact, save the usual lesions.' If she's cunning, she might discharge a tube of petroleum into her snatch. But this is only a ploy. She might even tap her vast repertoire of lies. Do not fall for the slippery lips and make a messy situation even worse. (As if that jelly wasn't cold enough...) 'Spew not, my callous shrew. Save your twaddle for the next customer.' She'll likely feign offense and unveil the putrid VD inherent in her sex. (Vindictive Demeanor, that is.) But if you understand the impetus, this savage onslaught is easily squelched. Simply assure her that the money is hers to keep. 'No need for a snit. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your antibiotics. Better fill that Rx tonight, if you can.' But take heed, a female's brash exhibition of her VD is your cue to leave. Once clear of her fetor, vomit again if possible, and try to clear your head of any remaining fluid. Now, don't be too hard on yourself for falling into her den. Even if it were possible to avoid prowling harlots, to do so would be shirking our responsibility. We must provide always for the welfare of the weaker sex. This is the gentle man's burden. Strain of decay. Stroke your virile pride and rise to the occasion."