Schlorp
Pressure builds. Eventually, something gives.
10:13 AM
Arthur stood in line at the bank for thirty minutes. The air conditioning hummed, rattling the vent above his head.
His left thumb pulsed. He wasn’t going to get back to the office in time.
He looked down. The skin around the knuckle was tight. Shiny. It looked like a sausage casing cooked too long. He tried to bend it. The joint locked. A squeak came from the skin.
“Next,” the teller said.
Arthur stepped forward. He put his withdrawal slip on the marble.
“ID,” the teller said. Her nametag said Brenda.
Arthur fumbled for his wallet. His left thumb hit the counter. A dull thud. Like a ripe melon hitting pavement.
“Is there a problem?” Brenda asked. She looked at the clock.
“My hand,” Arthur said.
Brenda pointed to the slip. “Sign here.”
Arthur picked up the pen. He wrote his name. The lines were jagged.
Pop.
A sound like a dry twig snapping.
Arthur looked at his left hand. The index finger was gone. Just a wet stump. Red mist settled on the withdrawal slip. A piece of fingernail landed in Brenda’s coin tray.
Brenda stared at the nail. She sighed. She reached for a box of tissues.
“You got blood on the counter,” she said. “That’s a biohazard.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. He patted his pockets for a handkerchief. He didn’t have one. He used his sleeve.
“You need to take that with you.” Brenda pointed at the finger segment in the coin tray.
Arthur picked it up. It was warm. He put it in his shirt pocket.
“Next,” Brenda said.
10:48 AM
Arthur sat in his Honda Civic. He needed gas. The fuel light on the dash had been on since Tuesday.
He gripped the steering wheel. The pressure moved to his right knee. It pressed against his denim jeans.
He merged onto the highway. Traffic was stopped. Construction.
If he could just get through traffic, the rest of the day would straighten itself out.
His knee throbbed in time with the turn signal. Tick. Throb. Tick. Throb.
He shifted his weight. The fabric of his pants strained as the pressure increased.
Schlorp.
The tension released. A warm wetness soaked his pant leg. It ran down his calf. It filled his shoe.
Arthur looked down. His jeans were dark and heavy. His kneecap was gone. The leg bent at a new angle. Sideways.
The car behind him honked.
Arthur looked in the rearview mirror. A woman in a Subaru was flipping him off. She mouthed the words Move, Fucker.
Arthur pressed the gas. His foot slipped inside his wet shoe. The car lurched forward.
1:37 PM
The conference room smelled like floor wax. Henderson sat at the head of the table. He was looking at a spreadsheet on his tablet.
Arthur stood by the whiteboard. He leaned his weight on his good leg. His right pant leg was soaked through.
He wondered if Henderson could tell he wasn’t prepared.
“The Q3 projections,” Arthur said.
Pressure built behind his left eye. A golf ball being pushed through a garden hose.
“Speak up,” Henderson said. He didn’t look up. “You’re mumbling.”
“The projections,” Arthur said louder.
The pressure spiked.
Thwip.
Arthur’s left eye shot out of the socket. It hit the whiteboard. It left a wet smear on the Q3 column. It bounced off the marker tray and rolled across the mahogany table.
It stopped next to Henderson’s coffee mug. Henderson looked at the eye. Then he looked at his coffee. He moved the mug three inches to the left.
“Go on,” Henderson said.
Arthur touched his face. The socket was empty. He could feel the air conditioning blowing directly onto his optical nerve. It stung.
“We are up four percent,” Arthur said.
“Projected or actual?” Gary asked. Gary was checking his email.
“Actual.”
Arthur’s stomach gave a lurch. The belt buckle finally gave way. The button shot across the room. It hit the glass wall.
Ping.
His intestines unspooled. They slid down his pant leg and caught on his shoe.
Arthur stumbled. He grabbed the edge of the table.
“Arthur,” Gary said. “Stop fidgeting. It’s distracting.”
Arthur kicked the coil of intestine under his chair.
“Wrap it up,” Henderson said. “I have a two o’clock.”
2:36 PM
Arthur sat in his car. The empty socket throbbed every time light hit the exposed nerve.
He found his sunglasses in the glove box and put them on. Air moved through the gap. It made a faint whistling sound when he breathed.
He checked the rearview mirror. He looked almost normal.
8:03 PM
Sheila’s bedroom was dark. Arthur lay on his back. He kept his suit jacket on. It hid the split in his spine. The sunglasses were still on his face.
Sheila lay next to him. She smelled like vanilla lotion. She put a hand on his chest.
“You’re tense,” she said.
“Work,” Arthur said.
“Um, why are you wearing sunglasses?” Sheila asked. “And your jacket. Take them off.”
“I thought you wanted to role play,” Arthur said.
“What?”
“You mentioned it last week.”
“I said maybe we could try something different,” Sheila said. “I didn’t mean dress like a cop at a funeral.”
She moved her hand down. She brushed his stomach.
The pressure moved south. It pooled in his pelvis.
Sheila shifted closer.
Arthur winced.
He just wanted to fuck her in the ass.
Sheila sighed. “At least take off the sunglasses.”
“They stay on,” Arthur said.
“Jesus. Fine.” She reached for his belt.
The pressure spiked. It hit the limit.
Schlorp.
Hot liquid flooded his pants. It soaked through the denim. It spread across the duvet cover.
Sheila pulled her hand back.
“What the fuck, Arthur,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the ceiling fan. He was lighter. There was a hollow space between his hips now.
“We haven’t even started,” Sheila said. She sat up. She didn’t turn on the light.
“It’s been a while,” Arthur said.
“It’s everywhere,” she said. She touched the sheet. “It’s soaking the mattress.”
Sheila kicked him. Her foot connected with the empty space where his cock used to be. It made a squishing sound.
“You need to go. Right now.”
10:13 PM
Arthur’s apartment was quiet. The cat was asleep on the radiator.
His suit jacket was ruined. The back was split open. His spine was visible. The vertebrae clicked as he walked to the kitchen.
His right foot dragged. It was just skin now. The bones had pulverized in the elevator.
He opened the fridge. A jar of pickles. Half a carton of milk.
Milk might help.
He reached for a glass.
Massive pressure hit his chest.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t have lungs anymore. They had dissolved on the bus ride home. The person next to him had just turned up their headphones.
Arthur fell forward.
Schlorp.
Arthur was gone. In his place was a heap of wet organic matter spread across the linoleum. A slurry of red and grey. His sunglasses sat on top of the pile. Unbroken.
The cat woke up. It jumped down from the radiator. It sniffed the pile. It sneezed.
It walked back to the radiator.
Someone pounded on the ceiling.
“Keep it down! Some of us have work in the morning!”
THE END