Saturday night I was out on a run with Donovan, one of Timo's three monks. We went by the Melkweg because there was some kind of local bands showcase. Bad local metal bands are sort of Typhoid Marys for bodies. No-luck skeezballs with pathetic Wagnerian tendencies. For them, making bodies is a kind of dead-end power trip, like meth. At least where I'm from.
Anyway, there's suddenly a splash in the canal around the front door. We get over there and (surprise!) there's a no-luck skeezball in a rank leather jacket, no shirt, clawing over the rail trying to get at the girl who fell or jumped in. Donovan takes care of him and I pull the girl out. She's lying on the ground and I'm asking her name, hoping/assuming she knows English. She rolls over to puke and I can see the white of her vertebrae through the rip in the back of her neck. They look like a fossil stuck in a tar pit. Donovan's gone so I pin her down with my knees and start reading the sutra off the card Timo gave me. But I'm only two lines in when she just roars, I mean roars, pushes me off and tries to bite my damn leg. I have to admit, I was like, you know what? Whatever. And she ran.
When i told Timo what happened, he didn't say anything. I asked him how many bodies he had saved. He looked around at the monks and said, five. One died. One was lost. He must be crazy. We're out almost every night and every night we do at least one intervention. He's been doing this almost two years. That's at least 700 contacts with only 3 responses? Jesus, direct mail works better.
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