Episode 1: The Problem with Fingers

It’s difficult picking up your own fingers. I knew thumbs were important, and I had taken them for granted. I regret that, now.

But I was scrambling in the middle of the sidewalk madly scooping up dozens of digits. Nineteen? Thirty-seven? Two? I couldn’t remember how many there were supposed to be, but it didn’t matter. A swarm of rats riding on the backs of crows were rushing toward me, wielding salad forks and butter knives, and chanting something about a weenie roast. I counted sixteen fingers and four thumbs – close enough.

I needed to get to a seamstress in hurry, and I didn’t have time for the rats, so I made a hasty escape. Beneath me the sidewalk began to warp and twist into a sort of funhouse mirror image of itself. The cement sloshed over my shoes, rising quickly until I was knee-deep in a river of clay.

Behind me the crow-mounted rats had settled into Nordic longboats. Their chants crying in unison with the swift paddle of their many oars. Hopes of escape sank as my assailants drew nearer and nearer.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to outrun them. Instead I needed to find a place to hide. Luckily, no more than three-feet (as the crow flies) in front of me, stood a beautiful white goat with the words free candy inside painted across its ass.

“Yo!” I said to the goat. “Help me out! I need a place to hide.”

The goat looked at me, then looked at the crow-mounted rats in the Nordic longboats behind me. Their pursuit had slowed to a crawl. A dispute had broken out among ranks, and the rats had begun lobbing rotting heads of cabbage at one another. The goat shot me a wink and unhinged its jaw to open its mouth impossibly wide.

“Geh eeehng!” The goat bleated.

“Excuse me, what?” I said.

“Geeeh eeeeehnnnng!”

“Oh! ‘Get in!’ Yes! Yes! I get it! Thank you!”

Tossing one last glance over my shoulder, I ran up the goat’s tongue, into his mouth, and slid down his gullet. The entrance shut behind me as gravity pulled down mucus-lined tube. Only a few seconds seemed to pass before I was deposited unceremoniously onto a marble floor.

To Be Continued…

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St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. Attracted to horror. Survivor of abuse. Professional Insomniac. PTSD and MDD misguided.

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