The knife wound runs down my side from under my arm to the top of my hip. It burns like a motherfucker, and the tequila does little to stop the pain as the needle sinks into my flesh. The stitches are far from professional, but they'll do the job and close the skin, keeping muscle and tissue on the inside where they belong.

Never strangle a man with a knife in his hand is my new motto. He sliced into my side before I could stop him. He's dead now and I'm alive, so I'll take it ...