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every woman a koontz
m. thompson's rewrite
He was big; a head taller than Chyna, easily seventy-five to a hundred pounds heavier, his arms as big around as Chyna's legs, his shoulders half again as wide as her shoulders. His bones were packed with hard muscle, stretching the fabric of his jeans across his powerful thighs. His denim jacket was meant for a much smaller man. His thick, brown hair was neatly trimmed in a line above the nape of his thick neck. She could not see his face. She did not want to.
He held one giant, maroon-stained hand up, as if beckoning to another person she could not see, and Chyna's heart raced at the thought that there might be two... but no, for the words he said next were too softly spoken to be heard outside the room.
"Come to me," he murmured quietly, almost fondly. Even in a soft tone, his rough voice carried resonance and character.
Chyna's mouth went dry, her eyes went wide, her bladder felt full. It was she the killer was addressing. He knew she was there. She was sure of it. He would take her by the throat with one mighty hand and...
Then she saw the spider.
"Come to me," he begged the arachnid, which hung from the ceiling on a fine silk thread, a foot above his grasping fingers.
The spider spun out its thread, descending.
The killer turned his extended hand palm-up, waiting.
"Little one." The softest of whispers.
The spider lowered itself gradually onto the broad, open palm.
And Chyna's ears began to sing a little, and the floor to tilt a few degrees, as the killer brought his hand slowly to his mouth and swallowed.
He stood motionless with his head tipped back, savoring.
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