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He was a prince and a hemophiliac, and his blood flowed freely on
the Egyptian cotton of his sheets. Rebel soldiers shot him twelve
times, bayoneted him, threw him into a mine shaft and dropped
grenades on top of his body.

In the morning before his death, a maid came to him and said, "if
I help you escape, will you marry me?"

"A real prince," he said, "can’t marry a maid." He liked the
sound of his own voice, sexy and full of masculinity.

In his next life, he was a businessman and married a princess of
a postage-sized kingdom. His blood flowed freely on his Ralph
Lauren sheets. A terrorist kidnapped him and buried him alive.

The morning before his kidnapping, his maid came to him and said,
"Your life is in danger. If I tell you how to save yourself, will
you have sex with me?"

"A gentleman," he said, "can’t have sex with a maid." His voice
caressed her, warm and moist like a lover’s tongue on the inner

In his next life, he was a maid and her blood flowed freely on
her polyester sheets. A stray bullet hit her in the head, killing
her instantly.

The morning before she was shot, the Governor of Three Islands,
her employer, raped her. She was buying a gun for revenge when
the bullet hit. That day she went straight to heaven and never
looked back. Had she looked, she would be locked inside a pillar
of salt and her blood would flow freely until the end of time.

Blessed in her ignorance, no longer she and no longer he, the
naked soul was happier than a sparrow with its belly full of
worms on a sunny day.

  Mark Budman

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