Brides Of The Impaler Read Online Free PDF

not traumatized, you’re not suffering from some delayed reactive disorder, and you’re not having flashbacks from the drugs the Goldfarbs used on us. Neither of us are having any of that crap.”
    Cristina squeezed her sister’s hand and smiled. She always felt better after talking to her, even when she didn’t incite the conversation. “You’re a gem, you know that?”
    “Actually, I’m a vain label-whore and an absolute bitch when I see someone like that prissy woman over there with a Gianni dress that looks better than mine,” Britt said, and then scowled past Cristina’s shoulder.
    Cristina took a quick glance and shook her head. “You’re a gem and a nut.”
    “Yeah, and thank God I’m engaged to a New York City attorney who’s head over heels for me. I couldn’t afford to shop at Salvation Army on what social services pays me.”
    “But that’s proof of your character, isn’t it?”
    Britt gaped. “What, that I’m engaged to a rich lawyer?”
    “Well, yeah. On what he makes, you wouldn’t have to work at all, and neither would a lot of women. But you do. You work your butt off for low pay helping the abused and the victimized when you could be sitting in a lounge chair all day sipping Dom Perignon and fanning yourself in a Bill Blass bikini.”
    “Since you put it that way…yes! You’re absolutely right!” Britt pushed some plates over to Cristina. “Now would you please eat some of this? If you don’t, I’ll eat it allmyself, then I’ll get fat, Jess’ll get sick of me and kick me out for a skinny girl—probably that one over there in the Gianni dress—and then I will have to shop at Salvation Army.”
    “All right,” Cristina conceded. “I’ll have some.”
    “Good.” Britt got up. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Where are you going?”
    Britt whispered. “I just have to ask that floozy where she got that dress.”
    “You’re not serious!”
    “Oh yes I am.” Britt bit her lower lip. “Pretty sick, isn’t it?”
    Cristina chuckled, then started on the appetizers.
       
    The bus-roar and heel-tapping clamor of the sidewalk didn’t bother her when she left. Cristina declined a ride home from Britt; she liked to walk, and she wanted to get used to the city. The skyscrapers on either side of the street loomed so high, it seemed impossible for them to have even been built. Lunch hour was winding down, and the street was even getting a bit more sane.
    “Hot dog, miss?” a gruff voice asked aside.
    She looked to see a rugged street vendor in a Yankees hat and a Jets shirt. “Cheese, mustard, mayo?”
    “Mayo?” Cristina exclaimed. “On hot dogs? ”
    “Don’t knock it, toots.” He had a chewed-down cigar between his teeth as he presumed to sell food. “It’s New York deli mayo, from Artie’s.”
    “Maybe next time…”
    “You sure? Only two bucks. They’re Sabrett’s—the genuine New York dog.”
    “Actually, I’m full of cuttlefish, but thanks just the same,” she said, and then slipped away.
    What a pain in the …
    She eyed the divergent crowd, which seemed to beat along the sidewalks like blood in arteries. It was the ultimate cross-culture here: every nationality mixed with everyeconomic status, all pulsing together in tandem. Maybe I could get used to this , she considered. Or did the sudden tolerance stem more from feeling better after her talk with Britt?
    She slowed by a comic/novelty shop, noticing several of her competitor’s products in the window. Living Dead Dolls, Gurl-Goyles, Fantasmic Fishies. But no Cadaverettes! she fumed. She edged into the store, at once hesitant.
I’ve
got to stand up for my product , she knew, but she also knew she was 100 percent nonassertive. When her well-done burger came to the table medium, she never sent it back. Passivity was as much a part of her as her blonde hair.
    All comic shops seemed to possess the same musty smell, and usually only a quarter of the floor space existed for comic books and graphic