Tuna. Pasta. Baked.
The floor was warm. I knew this because my whole body started slowly stewing from the moment I lay it down upon the faux-leather cushions that had been scattered there for my benefit. It was a vibrant mix that now stirred inside my insides: beer blending with whiskey blending with wine while tuna chunks swam amongst the pasta shells and cooked themselves into a noxious broth that was always destined to boil over before the night's sleep was complete.

At least twice the grotesque casserole that slowly simmered in my guts dragged me from my slumber and worried me almost to the point of getting up, but a fierce hangover had grasped my mind and opening my eyes was like affording it permission to punch pain deep into my brain. So I ignored the warnings, shifted uncomfortably to fidget my baking belly into a less dangerous position and sought out the slumber that I hoped would chase away the brain pain.

Sunrise provided unwelcome confirmation that my paltry sleep wasn't sufficient to clear my hangover head and the early summer sunlight streamed directly into my eyes as if a divine nomination. The contents of my guts were reheated to noxious perfection and ready to be served up. I had merely to select the location of this diabolical eatery and there would be no chance for complaint about the quality of the fare on offer.

I served up a small starter into the sink that occupied the corner of the room; an unpleasant dish that only served to highlight just how large the main course was to be. Urgency grasped me as I sought out a dinning room for this despicable feast and I made good my exit from the stifling, oppressive heat of the bedroom. Once in the coolness of the corridor I relaxed and enjoyed a momentary respite, but this was to be my undoing as I applied pressure to the hallway door and prematurely plated the foul dish all about the corridor.

For a brief moment relief washed over me; the kind of relief that comes with emptying ones guts of a relentless torment and knowing that your innards have ceased their battle with the monsters of boke. Then I chanced a glance at my arm and saw that the chunks I'd barked were now all over it; and the door it was holding and the floor beneath and the wall beside it. My chunky yawn had slithered through the door gap and begun its descent towards the toilet I'd originally planned to dish it out into, but in a manner that meant I would be mopping it up before it reached that far.

They say the smell lingered for weeks after, that my attempts to clean were so cursory that half chewed tuna chunks and broken pasta shells still lingered in the nooks and lurked in the crannies for the remaining warm summer months. I assumed they exaggerated but I couldn't confirm it for myself; I was never invited to stay again.
( Moey, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 16:37, Reply)