One
My rest is disrupted by the sound of a thousand crystal glasses breaking against a marble floor somewhere. I open one eye, quizzically scanning my vicinity. Remembering the limbs on the landing above, I squint and see an index finger or two tremble nervously. Curiosity piqued, I unfold my frame and rise after disconnecting the argon but leaving the helium. Always conserve as much helium as possible.
From afar, the limbs remind me of algae, merrily swaying with an invisible current, but the closer I get, the sadder the tale. Skin, stained yellow and grey from neglect and disuse, jitter and crack but instead of blood only sand spills to the floor.
How is it that no one has reported this? If I had a head, I'd shake it in disbelief. Limbs this weak are much better off recycled. I call up a funeral march on the intercom, but to my dismay this month's quota has already been met. With a deep sigh, I whistle a sad tune while meticulously injecting limb after limb with exactly 34.2 cc of strychnine.
As the last limb implodes with a discreet poof, a disconnected nozzle complains loudly somewhere behind me.