Once upon a time, a man we know cut off his finger. The wound clotted, but the phalange was lost. Then, a stranger sent him magic powder in the mail with these instructions:
Every midnight for the next fortnight, take your bloody stump to the crossroads & dip it in this powder, turn thrice, & spit.
The man followed the directions, but grew, in place of his finger, a pig's hoof. Does he have a right to regret?
Arthur
New York, NY
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