Placing his hands palms-down on the scarred work table, he closed his tired eyes, drawing and exhaling several deep, calming breaths. He made a conscious effort to relax his slightly trembling body. Satisfied, he screwed the lid tightly onto the jar holding the final new addition to his keepsakes.
He frowned, considering the relative ease with which he’d been able to gain the stripper’s trust. His frown turned to an unrestrained scowl at the euphemism “stripper”. She had been a harlot, a whore, a painted woman whose singular lack of moral fiber had dictated the only means by which her distressing iniquities could be mitigated was to contribute her life force, her essential essence, her very whole to the noble cause of expanding his trove of singular treasures.
Quelling his emotions, he carefully lifted the jar from the tabletop, sliding it into its proper display slot next to seventeen almost-identical jars.
Whether or not it was a necessary inclusion to his collection was debatable but, glancing at the pair of severed feet suspended in his special preservative solution, he couldn’t resist a grin. Could one ever really pass up the opportunity to own just one more pair of stripper heels?
This story was written for the weekly Facebook Flash Fiction Friday flash fiction writing prompt: stripper heels.