I paid for that leg. You couldn't--just like you couldn't get your own woman. Well, here's a scenario: Waiting in your apartment late one night, there's more than just your miserable existence; there's me.

When you wake up, you're strapped to a gurney, which is, in turn, welded to a wall in a mine in Eastern Washington. I get right to work. I've already prepared your tourniquet (a permanent part of the gurney), just below the knee, so I line up the hacksaw. The screams don't bother me, and apologies are just boring. Really, I only want what's mine. Once through the bone, I use a come-along mounted on the wall until the muscles snap like rubber bands. Into the suitcase, closed, and I'm on my way. I figure we're squared, do what you want. Of course, once you claw that tourniquet off, I doubt you'll make the six miles to the nearest house, but if you do, feel free to turn me in.

Good luck, chum.

--Anonymous