She looked around at the other women, straining to remember the dossier Sharpe had compiled on Sangria. The lipstick would wear off, she knew, if they didn't get a fresh dose occasionally. But Sangria would probably wake up in a few minutes, a bit headachy but more than capable of giving out commands, unless...
WildRose grinned wickedly. She crawled over to her utility belt, and pulled out a tiny tube of surgical glue. Reaching out for Sangria's hand, she smeared a small circle of it onto the palm. "Kiss this, bitch," she muttered, pressing Sangria's hand, palm first, against her own lips.
THE END
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