Bodysnatchers

Nineteenth century is such a peculiar era. It makes you feel so restless.

We dug up Wendy's mother's body last night instead of her cousin's. Concourse of events has led us to suspect more booty from the nebulous nubile body than from the baby. We were right.

Miss Woolbridge could be blameless barefoot bride. Shiny glitter instead of deathly matte. I heard she never got married despite having Wendy. Medical examiner ruled the cause of death as syphilis.

John was the most profligate of us all. It was his idea. He might have been the one who kvetched like a lady, but his imprecation lay in his weakness for the fair sex.

Salacious atmosphere of the lab allowed us to have some merry. One by one, like musketeers ready to slice the sheath of a sabre. It was divine. After all, we were all hedonists.

The concoction was that it was owned by a medical school, but whilst the body laid the foundation for student work, the commodities found their secret way into our hands, just as the noblest ring found its way onto the ring finger.

Judge Cultridge never found us guilty. Nineteenth century is such a peculiar era.