Between careful bites of her creme’ de menthe chocolate torte, the five-thousand dollar per night prostitute swallowed her various anti-psychotic medications with several large sips of perfectly aged Garrafeira Port. While her client talked over his extensive talents on Wall Street, the prostitute smiled widely while letting her mind wander to the occasion on which she injected an entire syringe full of HIV-tainted blood into the calf of a stockbroker who, after retaining her services for the evening, had finally passed out after inhaling a mound of cocaine chased with a dozen or so lithium-laced vodka tonics. He’d developed AIDS before realizing his illness, wasted away, and died, very painfully, three years later. It was cold on the morning the prostitute showed up at his well-attended funeral. She masturbated beneath her coat while watching his HIV-infected wife wail with a final release of grief. “That one got off easy,” she thought. Meanwhile, the client, having finished his rant, began a thorough critique of their dessert. But beneath this his mind was focused sharply on the memory of his last outing with a high-dollar hooker. Dinner, dancing, and a few shots of ultra-pure heroin. He remembered the sharp, lustrous color of her bright red lipstick, covered in drool, her vacant blue-green eyes, and the silly half-smile smeared across her face as she stretched out on his Italian leather sofa, reveling in the sensation of the powerful opiate as it washed over her brain. A moment later, she nodded off. He reached over, casually, and in one calculated motion, removed from his jacket and pumped three syringes brimming with synthetic adrenaline into the carotid artery pulsing weakly beneath the skin of her pale, clammy neck. Later, while sitting next to her corpse, he imagined that the sudden, excruciating nature of her death indicated that her heart must have literally exploded. He ran his fingers through her raven hair and reached to his erection. And at once his attention was back to the prostitute sitting across from him, who, just then done with her torte, flashed him a devilish look that said “Let’s get out of here.” So they did.