Launderette

The executioner scowls as he pulls the entrails, magician's
handkerchiefs, out into the basket at his feet. He moves, dragging the
basket with one hand, his back creaking, to a rusty orange drum. The
guts are transferred and the lid is slammed shut. He straightens and
hits a button.

The machine wails - the sound of sixty-five smokers leaning just that
touch too far out of the train carriage window. The man crooks his neck
back and listens. After a time he pushes a button and the train slows,
scalps dropping at gradually increasing intervals. The machine stops
and the lid pops open. There is a smell. The man pulls a handful from
the drum, an intestine wraps through his knuckles and a slippery kidney
pops out of his grasp, flopping out on to the table where I sit. He
looks at me. I pick it up and realise that it's one of mine. "Sorry, I
must've left it in there," I say, "no wonder I never have a complete
pair."