GenGhis Khan's Massage

“Yeah, okay — then get me that beer.”

“This is Chinese method.  Not shiatsu.  Call it Genghis Khan Massage.”  She laid her hand on his chest.

“Old Chinese secret, eh?  A little tai-chi?”

“You mean acupressure?”  Ignorant old man, she exhaled in disgust.

“Why Genghis Khan?  He was that little Mongolian who invaded Europe.  What’s he know about massage?”

“Technique.”  Mei-Lin cupped the small transponder in her palm and ran it over his heart.  The PC in the bedroom transmitted a signal, which was picked up by the disk and dutifully re-transmitted to Ralph’s pacemaker.  Wonderful American technology, Mei-Lin thought, rubbing his chest.  Things that can start can be stopped, and muscles that can be defibrillated can be told to twitter and jerk like spastic frogs.  She smiled as Ralph’s eyes opened wide.

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