★ ‘Irritable Bowels of Hell’ by Rupert McLintock


The old man at the table behind me was choking on a sausage biscuit.  There was no one else in the diner. Stricken with fright, I pretended I was choking, took a sip of my drink, threw my trash in the garbage and exited the place coughing loudly and clearing my throat without paying heed to the man as he gasped and struggled to suck air.  It was raining frenziedly.

I marveled at the strange colors and patterns of the nasty oozing automobile fluid runoff in the parking lot. There came a near bursting from my colon. I dreaded the thought of having to go back in that place and use the bathroom.  As I was unlocking my truck I tried to hold it but couldn’t.  I ran through the rain and reentered the establishment.  The man was clearly dead and sat hunched over his table across the room.  Apparently none of the employees had come out of the back yet and noticed him.  I quickly ran to the restroom and struggled through a particularly rough bout of diarrhea.

There was a song playing on the radio while I was defecating.  I couldn’t really make out the lyrics but it sounded like “I’m gonna get me a whore in Mexico and hit her with a ball-pein hammer”.

I eventually finished, washed my hands and was prepared to ignore everything and run back to the truck when before I could reach the door I noticed there was a large winged monstrosity clung to the back of the dead man. It was furiously digging into his back with an enormous beak. It started to sling him around into a position in which it could more easily devour him.

The thing hurled his corpse to the floor with a disgusting thud, now relentlessly ripping into his guts with it’s huge beak and razor sharp talons. Blood and guts were being flung in all directions. As I stood there in a horrified stupor at the absolute insanity unfolding before me there came some sort of bloody organ flying out which smacked me right in the face and splatted onto the floor like a wet sack.

I woozily exited the place, ran like a drunken fool and scrambled to unlock my truck. I finally did so but the damned thing wouldn’t start. And worst of all my stomach was hurting again.

Rupert McLintock lives in the remote wilderness of southern Montana. He is a former quaker and an avid connoisseur of rare and unusual fruit jellies.

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