It seems, throughout his life, that numbers played a vital role in his day to day. By counting to 1,357, he could awaken from a catatonic framework to find the entire downstairs completely spotless. By counting to 254, a clockwise motion of his tongue (matched precisely to the metronomic seconds) could bring his wife to climax without extra rigmarole and only cause minor aches and pains in his aging jaw line.
The 2.5 children was another matter, entirely. In an effort to appease his superiors, he forced his only daughter to undergo numerous controversial surgeries, gradually working toward the aim of completely splitting the girl in two.
“You’ll be twice the woman you are now!” he told the whimpering lass, secretly possessing no intention of keeping the bottom half. It was to no avail. Following the third series of incisions, the girl succumbed to a nasty cold and could not be summoned.
There the man sat, holding the lifeless hand of his offspring, listening to the clock in room 4952 beat incessantly in perfect time. Sweat teased his brow, and he grew weary at the notion that there were indeed no solutions- not even in the absolute.
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