Tuktu Weir queen of numbers

"to whom it may concern: i make lov of u regardless." -- sal st creep

he wakened, feverish. the oxidized metal that ligatured his neck had rusted at its hinges and no longer yielded with posture adjustments. grafts of flesh and matted fur stuck to its links and ripped open any scabs that had begun healing-- the ore would soon poison his blood if he was not slackened from its noose. he would painfully succumb to sepsis. 
the guttersnipe may as well already went the way of flesh and bone the way his sloughed sickly beneath his skin. he loped in a strange, splaying manner, tail wicking the air with the beat of his trounce. for a man indisposed as he, absalom did not show it in his gait. it was almost jolly in manner, though death's winged pestilence circled him overhead. 
until he saw the mottled girl ahead. he slowed his roll to a slouching pitiful state and for a short time, watched her from a distance. she would likely discern his approach as she lifted her snout, the spectral color of her eyes drawing his attention--and what comely features for her to boast.  
his legs carried him to the opposite side of the water with a limp that was entirely, if not expertly, feigned. standing across from her, it appeared if he were to move an inch further his bones would clatter to the earth like a misassembled skeleton. "i have vultures but i need aloe vera." he rasped plainly--as though it were the most conventional thing he could possibly utter.