It wasn't my day. When I hit him in the mouth, I cut my hand and the blood dropped onto my new mauve Lauren tie. And blood doesn't come out. It made me mad so I kicked him a couple of times while he rolled on the ground in the alley, swearing in Spanish. Nobody saw us. The alleys of Beverly Hills are pretty deserted at eight in the morning. The stores don't open until ten.
- From Blood Doesn't Come Out, a short story by Michael Crichton