(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"Put 'em aside, Marta, that's what I does here." She scratched her head.
"Aye, Marta, we do... stitchy-thread and teethies are precious, can be
turned into jink-jink. 'Strip the corpses we bring ya,' they tell Marta: 'Pull out
teethies, stitchies, thingies inside the corpse, strip 'em cold and then we'll
sell 'em to the Dusties."
And I thought a Collector's trade was bad. At least dragging corpses to the
Mortuary for disposal was a necessary function, this was pure scavenging.
"Who tells you to do this?"
"Fat-faced gimme-pig Quint, n' the other crutch-hobble, hobble-crutch
Fair-odd Pharod, innit that right, Marta?" She gave a queer smile, and
nodded. "Aye, it is, Marta..."
I leaned in, suddenly interested, "Pharod? Where is he?"
Marta shrugged. "Where's Pharod, this one asks? He's heres, Marta, isn't
he...?" She nodded. "Aye, Pharod is heres, Marta. One of the buildings here,
he is..."
"What do they do with the things you dig out of the corpses?"
"Sell. Sell for shinies," she said simply.
I ran a hand along my belly, suddenly caught with the feeling that there was
something caged inside my flesh. Whew knew what odd bits and pieces had
found their way deep inside me with all the dagger thrusts and broken
bones? Or perhaps I once hid something within for safekeeping. The feeling
was like an itch in the small of my back, just beyond my reach, persistent,
irritating, until I knew I needed some help if I was to satisfy that odd urge
that had just come upon me. "Marta, can you dig around in my body for
anything?"
Marta squinted at me. "Hmnnn." Then nodded. "Marta can do that, cancha
Marta? Yes, you can."
Morte made a gagging sound, "I am not going to watch this."
"Where? Where..." Marta was studying me, as if looking for the best place
to crack me open.
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