This is where I come in. I'm apparently spending a lot of my time underneath a bridge, on a shady dock by a river. Among my possessions is a serrated knife. The People Who No Longer Want to Be People send some envoys to my dock to ask if I'll do the honor of removing their thumbs. Normally I'd be grossed out by such a proposition, but they're so sincere, I can't help but say yes.

So, one by one, I begin cutting off their thumbs. It's not as bloody as you'd guess; I have special circular bandages that fit right over the small wounds. My only concern is disposing of the thumbs in a way that the police won't suspect what we're doing and arrest us. Empty Advil and Tylenol bottles seem to be an ideal hiding place for the dismembered members before they go into the trash, but I fear I'll run out. Of course, my patients often bring Advil bottles with them.