I CAN SMELL YOUR FATE

You're all going to die. Let me tell you how.

Eventually you either tell people the truth after they begin asking enough questions or you just move to another town, and when he finally dies it’s partly out of exhaustion from doing the latter.   A lifetime of doing odd jobs here and there, taking what he can get to survive on the go, never really sticking around long enough to be understood but long enough to know that each place could be a home to him in any other world. Where his penis should be is a parasitic twin that looks like an infant.  For all intents and purposes it’s just flesh and strangely cartilaginous bone, kept living tissue by his own fully grown body, but utterly devoid of a mind.   In the end, he was relieved.  Relieved to not have to explain why someone couldn’t hold the baby he was constantly carrying, relieved to not have to explain how sometimes the baby would just swell up and appear to jut out straight from his pelvis. Once, only once, did he tell anyone the truth, and he wasn’t even sure the woman really understood.  He was working as a janitor at a train station where a woman had fallen onto the tracks, her legs severed just below the knees.   As they were wheeling her off towards the ambulance, he ran alongside her gurney, leaned in and whispered “My baby is actually a parasitic twin where my penis is and I dress it up in baby clothes so nobody will notice.  I once tried masturbating with it when I was twenty four and it was the most horrific day of my life.” The woman, dying, seemed to come out of her delirium for just a moment to say “What the fucking shit?” before lapsing back into her moaning and sputtering. This time he takes the job not for the money but for the plan.  He knows he wants to die, but wants to be certain he’s not discovered, even in death, doesn’t want to be a freak. A few other baggage handlers notice him walking away from his cart, heading towards one of the jet engines. “GET AWAY FROM THAT JET ENGINE WITH THAT BABY!” someone cries out to him, marveling that he’d even be allowed to work with that baby always in his arms. Of course, he doesn’t want to get away, and soon enough the air intake does the rest of the work for him sucking him in and blasting him out like a giant salad shooter for people that like salad made from people.

Eventually you either tell people the truth after they begin asking enough questions or you just move to another town, and when he finally dies it’s partly out of exhaustion from doing the latter.  

A lifetime of doing odd jobs here and there, taking what he can get to survive on the go, never really sticking around long enough to be understood but long enough to know that each place could be a home to him in any other world.

Where his penis should be is a parasitic twin that looks like an infant.  For all intents and purposes it’s just flesh and strangely cartilaginous bone, kept living tissue by his own fully grown body, but utterly devoid of a mind.  

In the end, he was relieved.  Relieved to not have to explain why someone couldn’t hold the baby he was constantly carrying, relieved to not have to explain how sometimes the baby would just swell up and appear to jut out straight from his pelvis.

Once, only once, did he tell anyone the truth, and he wasn’t even sure the woman really understood.  He was working as a janitor at a train station where a woman had fallen onto the tracks, her legs severed just below the knees.  

As they were wheeling her off towards the ambulance, he ran alongside her gurney, leaned in and whispered “My baby is actually a parasitic twin where my penis is and I dress it up in baby clothes so nobody will notice.  I once tried masturbating with it when I was twenty four and it was the most horrific day of my life.”

The woman, dying, seemed to come out of her delirium for just a moment to say “What the fucking shit?” before lapsing back into her moaning and sputtering.

This time he takes the job not for the money but for the plan.  He knows he wants to die, but wants to be certain he’s not discovered, even in death, doesn’t want to be a freak.

A few other baggage handlers notice him walking away from his cart, heading towards one of the jet engines.

“GET AWAY FROM THAT JET ENGINE WITH THAT BABY!” someone cries out to him, marveling that he’d even be allowed to work with that baby always in his arms.

Of course, he doesn’t want to get away, and soon enough the air intake does the rest of the work for him sucking him in and blasting him out like a giant salad shooter for people that like salad made from people.

3 months ago

  1. kuraisalreadyhere reblogged this from hyenafan
  2. shnoopit reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  3. 666thugnasty reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  4. mime-vs-dementia reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  5. fuzzyhomeless reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  6. highheeledjesus reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  7. eatthekidsfirst reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  8. thewingsoficarus reblogged this from hyenafan
  9. vinushkaa reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  10. konekberlayang reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  11. thehandjobhalflinghacker reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  12. hyenafan reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  13. beyondxbirthday reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  14. z0mbieteeth reblogged this from icansmellyourfate
  15. icansmellyourfate posted this

1 ⁄ 1

- Inkhorn theme powered by Tumblr -