A handsome blond man walked into the Show Me Salon in New York City.

"Hello, how may I help you?" asked the receptionist.

"Hi, I have a 2:00 appointment."

She looked at a sheet. "You must be Mark Slate."

"In the flesh."

"This way, please."

She led him into a massage room. "Your masseur will be here, soon. You asked for our Miss Dancer, right?"

"Yes. Is she available?"

"Yes, she is."

"Good. Thank you."

She left.

A couple minutes later, a pretty redhead came in.

"Hi, Mr. Slate."

"Hi, Miss Dancer."

(Hi, April, he whispered.

"Hi, Mark," she whispered back.

"Found out anything?"

"Yes, quite a bit. There is a THRUSH agent working here. I've tattooed the name on myself.

"Where?"

"I'll show you.)

"Take off your shirt, please. Now, lie on your stomach on the table."

He did this, and she began her work.

"You're very tense, Mr. Slate. You need my special massage."

"Special massage?"

"That's right."

She took her shoes off and stood on the table. Then she began massaging his back—with her feet!

"I'm not too heavy, am I?"

"No. In fact, that feels wonderful!"

"Thank you, sir."

She continued for a few minutes. Then she got off the table and sat in a nearby chair.

("Mark," she whispered.

He looked over towards her. She kicked her left leg up. On the sole of her foot was written the name SUSAN SIMON.

"How'd you do that?" he whispered.

"It's a special UNCLE ink. It appears when human sweat is applied to it.

"Oh, yes, I heard about it. So, that's why you walked on my back!"

"Uh huh!")

He stood up. "Thank you, Miss Dancer, that does feel better. Dare I say it, you have very talented feet!"

She smiled. "Why, thank you, Mr. Slate!"

("Take care of yourself, April."

"I will, Mark.")

He left the room. She put her shoes back on, and also left.