A very strong woman is carrying me inside. I am bleeding from multiple wounds after having defended her against an attack from hooligans. She considers me a hero.
She lays me on the couch. I hate bleeding on her furniture. Perhaps you should call an ambulance, I suggest. She shakes her head. I can heal you, my savior.
She goes into the bedroom and returns wearing a black caftan. She begins chanting something I do not understand and dancing around the couch. She sprinkles me with some foreign substance that makes me sneeze.
Amazingly, the bleeding stops, as does the pain.
But then one of my feet falls off.
I point to my foot lying on the floor. She shrugs and says, hey, it's only a hobby.
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