It wasn’t easy to procure Christina’s legs before the surgeon had them burned with the other medical waste. It was even more difficult to smuggle them into his home. He had poured tens of thousands of dollars into his daughter’s ballet dreams, but her limbs were never more graceful than when they drifted on formaldehyde tides.
“The lambada? A forbidden dance, my foot!” McMann pours salt on his thighs, followed by rubbing alcohol. As he massages this mixture into his abused flesh a shudder works its way up his spine. The ends of his daughter’s limbs dip in toward each other; her dismembered legs seem to be playing footsie together. His moans intensify. Now, before the alcohol can completely evaporate, he adds lye.
“A dancer for money, I’ll do what you want me to do.”
His daughter’s legs
