No use. The bow she'd taken from my case strummed. The arrow struck me in the heart....
Later, when I tried to explain to Mother, I found myself forced to defend myself against her contention that I had wanted the mortal to wound me, that I was putting my own selfish desires above my duties to her and our profession. My argument was weakened by my secret belief that she might be right.
Mother raged, but my clever wife—these modern women!—showed Mother that she and her son could not alone keep up with the expanding population. A good part of the world belonged to the half-dead, and they would continue to take it over unless we got some speed and efficiency into our work.
Mother became convinced. That is why I now have so many helpers—hired through a detective agency—and why we all now carry sub-machine guns in our violin cases instead of the picturesque but obsolete bow.
Modern times demand modern methods; there are so many to be wounded that we just simply must use the spraygun technique. There is no more individual attention, true, but then that never really mattered. What you do with your wound is up to you. Find your own healer.
I, Cupid, have found mine and it truly pleases me.