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Andrew Gallo collected hands. Hands to look at, to examine the soft wrinkles that folded over bony ridges and outlying tendons. Hands with fingernails short or long, brightly painted trendy colors, or soiled in earthy tones. Hands that held pens, phones, key chains, shopping lists, money, t**s and c***s, little black books and guns and other hands, dead or alive, just like his.
Andrew was a smart toad of a man. He was a brilliant engineer in the middle of his life. He had no wife or kids to bog him down. No girlfriend or boyfriend to bother him with their needs. Andrew had plenty of free time, which allowed him to collect b****y hands, freshly severed from unsuspecting victims who moved throughout their day amongst a sea of other rushing bodies, pacing sidewalks, dancing under s
