In my mind, dripping with fresh ink, the lines are born. For as long as I can remember, these lines have slipped down from my mind, choosing instead to inhabit somewhere in my intestine.
Peering down there is rough.
“There’s no more space to breathe!” complains poor little letter ‘a’.
“Shut up!” cries ‘b’, whipping out a gun. “No more complaining or I swear to God I’m not afraid to use this.”
I lift my gaze, choosing to ignore this horrific scene.
Before long, the situation takes a turn towards the more serious.
Crime runs rampant as the intestinal prisons brim over maximum capacity.
Riots break out.
“We want more space! We want letter rights!”
The struggled begins, poking painful holes into the soft mucous membrane.
Ouch.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, placing my hand onto the spot, onto the mound of fleshy cells under which my thoughts are trying to overthrow the rest of me.
“That’s it,” I think, “time to take these motherfuckers out, once and for all.”
A commission is sent. Ant-like men dispatched in an ant-like fire truck from the fiery depths of my tiny mind.
The aim: complete annihilation.
The trucks swagger in, sounding their horns. The letters scatter, pushed violently to the elastic edges of my insides. The ant-men work quickly, efficiently.
Soon, screaming masses are thrown deep into the gurgling pits. High pitched ululations resonate up through the hollow cavity as their black bodies dissolve into the acid.
Hahaa!
The ant-men look pleased as they examine the rubble and remain. The pile that once was has now nearly been reduced to a fragment of fiction.
Horror strikes as they look up…Freshly inked lines are falling from above!
“Well boys, it looks like there’s no rest for the wicked,” declares the head honcho ant-man.
All members of the army cock their fire-guns upwards to face the impending mass.
WAST WRTNG 