Bathroom habits aren’t typically acceptable to talk about in company, polite or not. No one wants to mention the good, long, heaving-sigh pee they had. No one wants to bring up that time they got so wasted at one of Jackson’s frathouse ragers that they shit themselves on the couch and woke up in a steaming pile of their own filth.

No one wants to talk about the good, the gross, or the downright weird when it happens in the palace of porcelain.

There is, however, one thing that I will always remind everyone I come across if given the chance, whether it’s considered a faux pas in the moment or not; always wipe front to back.

It’s an age-old adage, but sometimes… well, you just forget.

When I forgot, I was drunker than a boiled owl. You know… that kind of drunk: Black Out City shitty; I’m pissing-in-the-policeman’s-rosebushes blasted; doing somersaults while on fire one minute and then crying into Steve the doorman’s shoulder the next drunk. Deee-runk.

It was 11:45 PM on Halloween night. I knew because, like an idiot, I was checking my phone about every five seconds. I wish I could say I was waiting for a guy to text me back or something else terribly cliche (but normal), but no, I was babysitting an eBay auction for a lot of 37 Garbage Pail Kids trading cards.

I’m a responsible adult with a career. Eat me.

I scanned the sea of staggering bodies swaying out of time to the music. Cheryl, my best friend, always threw the best parties. A moment later and my eyes fell on the girl herself, slung over the shoulder of some tall, meaty jock douche with a sideswept auburn bouffant. I could see her slender, tanned fingers wriggling into his wavy locks. She brayed a golden, lilting laugh that always helped her earn her keep. The fingers in her mind were prying through a different set of locks tucked into the back pocket of bluejeans nearly bursting at their tiny finger-woven seams.

Hey, good for her. Who’s a girlfriend to judge? Everyone’s got their game.

Jockface waggled his eyebrows, the dying remnants of a no-doubt overtly sexist joke and stale PBR dripping from ruddy lips, and Cheryl laughed again, this time literally slipping her hand into his back pocket and giving his ass a squeeze.

I shook my head, a frantic giggle escaping my chest, and shifted uncomfortably in my place on the wall as my stomach bubbled and heaved. Lunch had not been particularly kind to me, and after five shots of Patrón and four beers, it was throwing a party of its own in my tainted guts.

As I watched my auto-bid knock the price of my gross beauties over the last bidder’s paltry attempt at defeat, a shadow fell across my vision. Flicking my eyes up in the dim light of the room, a face like a steamrolled sheet of bubblewrap greeted me, its leering grin practically dripping off of the sweaty surface and onto the screen of my phone.

I rolled my eyes: “What do you want, Carl?”

The sweaty manchild’s gaze fell down the lengths of my body, glancing off my curves like a pro skier doing an olympic-tier slalom. When his peanut brain caught up to raisin-dry eyes, he licked his lips absently and breathed, “Juss’ wanned to talk to the preeeist girl in the room.”

One date. We’d gone on one date. He’d talked about his Harvard dreams and model airplanes and leaned in for a face-swallowing kiss, sticking an oily paw down the front of my jeans and groping for gold. He came up with a black eye instead. Tonight, I didn’t feel like painting with all the colors of the wind; my stomach hurt like hell.

“Leave me alone, I’m busy.” Even in my tanked state, I mustered up enough clarity to send alarm bells ringing; I was not a toy to be played with. My stomach grumbled, and I shifted again.

“C’mon baby,” he cooed, fidgeting with his collar. Across it, I could see a red stain. Pasta sauce, most likely. “Dunn be like that.”

“Like what, Carl?”

“A tease.” The last word sounded like it’d been wrung out a thousand times over and slapped out to dry on concrete. I almost thought he’d choke on the syllable. If only I were so lucky.

He leaned forward; for a second, I thought he was going for another kiss; then, I saw the fright in his body catch up to his eyes and he hitched forward, painting the wall next to me with a veritable stew of vodka and steaming chunks of ravioli. Gagging, I jumped out of the way.

I was right. Pasta.

My stomach’d had enough; with the newfound addition of bile on the air, it dragged me towards the bathroom. From across the waves of people, I saw Cheryl waving at me, a worried expression on her face. I nodded that I was fine.

The hallway to the bathroom was lined with dull tracklights, pulsing gently to the throb of the bass pouring from Cheryl’s $4,000 sound system. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. No girl crying her eyes out, no couple steaming up the mirror, just perfect, quiet porcelain to welcome on my coming storm.

I hiked up my skirt, dropped my underwear, and plopped down on the seat, squeaking as the icy lip bit into my skin.

I’ll spare you the finer details, but it wasn’t pleasant. The war that my lower intestine and my earlier turkey on rye with too much avocado had been waging came to a head, and my physical wellbeing was the only casualty.

After the battle was over, my historic grounds torn to shreds, I slumped back against the upturned seat cover and opened my eyes. Things in the room were different, bright and sharper, and somehow simultaneously foggier; it almost looked like a couple had been copulating while I was firing away. All the more power to them, if they had.

You know that tension sweat, the calm before the storm of an anxiety attack? I could feel one brewing, full force, breaking out in tiny goosey rivers all over my body. My naked thighs rippled and beads of sweat were popping up across the small of my back and my forehead. I shook my head, trying to clear it; I needed to get out of here, out of the quiet, back to the party.

Reaching over and tearing off too much toilet paper, I sighed. The muddy bathroom drunk was a dangerous fool to welcome, but sometimes you have no choice but to turn in and offer a hand.

With my mind wandering into my purse to play at the numbers queued into my bid, I forgot the one cardinal rule of bathroomdom; I reached between my wobbly knees and wiped back to front.

The second the rough cotton paper broke its contact, I heard a vacuum open above me like someone had just poked a hole in a great big balloon. In a haze, I looked up at the ceiling. Speckled with the old plaster of a half-finished remodeling project, it was flexing.

Like a muscle, it quickly expanded and contracted, a pale grey lung desperate for breath. I gaped at it, watching it shiver, and shivered alongside. The alcohol coursing through my system pledged allegiance to the ridiculous vision, and it gave until it hurt.

The sucking sound grew louder, raising unseen welts in the small room like a whipped back, and I felt a tug in my fingers. Dumbly, I looked down at my hand through hooded lids; it was resting between my thighs, barely holding onto the soiled toilet paper. Another tug, and I dropped it.

As the syrupy sound of the vacuum above me erupted into a cacophonous blow and distorted like a half-dream suddenly birthed into reality, two very distinct things happened.

One: my hand was abruptly and rudely sucked into my vagina up to the wrist.

Two: a gooey, nightmarish godhand popped through the ceiling, dripping a viscous slime onto me; its fingers were tipped with a polish that looked an awful lot like mine. Smoke On The Nail by Floss Gloss. A nice, creamy, deep burgundy.

Seeing without seeing, thinking without thinking, my mind screamed at me to understand what was happening, but all I could do was drudge on the memory of the game of catch-the-vase I’d played with my sister when I was younger, the one that’d landed me the scar on my middle finger. The trip to the hospital and my mother’s subsequent anger were etched into my mind––and, more importantly, my skin––in ridiculous minutiae; above me, the memories were magnified a hundred times. As more of my hand disappeared up inside of me, I absently wiggled my fingers; thick and wet in my sometimes-sexual innards, I could feel them squish around as the oversized ones poking through the ceiling danced in unison.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; contorted in an absurd pose that made no physical sense, up to my elbow inside of myself and edging towards my bicep; the cracked grin of lunacy was spread thin and shallow across my face; and lord, was I sweating.

Raising my face, I closed my eyes, dug a little deeper, and grasped. Deep inside of myself, my finger closed around something solid, and the air itself tore open. The giant hand above me––my hand––closed around my shaking body, and suddenly, I was falling.

I hurtled through a washed-out web of shadows, technicolor frames caught halfway between shades of the known spectrum. With a muted splash, I landed hard on my back, the air leaping from my lungs.

Fearing a broken bone, I scanned the room without moving. To call it a room was generous; the walls heaved like a fish gasping for air and the ceiling oozed tendrils of pink and white stalactites. As I laid there, one of them slimed its way down directly over my face, hovering a few feet above me. I felt an unnatural tugging from somewhere deep in my stomach. The closer it got, the harder the tug. Raising a tenuous hand, I gently touched the tendril. It quivered, and a small explosion went off in my netherparts.

“Naughty, naughty!” a highpitched voice keened from somewhere behind me.

I jumped, forgetting my previous concerns, and scrambled to my feet. Above me, the tendril slipped back into the ceiling, pulsing harder as it went. When my brain finally caught up to the vision before me, it offered no respite from the insanity. Head to toe in pastel pink, the source of the voice stood and impatiently tapped a clipboard with a neatly french-manicured nail. She was plainly pretty in the way that TV commercial actors are; nice to look at, symmetrical, carbon copy quaint. Her glossed up lips wrapped around a chipboard smile with the practiced ease of a predator animal in repose. Bringing a slender hand up to her mouth, she giggled, the movement sending her waves of cornsilk hair across her shoulders in a lazy twirl.

She repeated: “Naughty, naughty!”

“I… what? Who are you? Where the hell am I?”

“Oh no, no time for questions, we’ve so much to do, so much to go over.”

Her accent, holding a gentle Australian inflection and a tenuous grasp of granite charm, suited her well; her voice was like a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer. Even in the vortex of wonder my brain was flurrying through, my eyes started to droop and a smile crept across my face.

A bulbous, slimy racoon-looking creature skittered past her, shaking the dope from my sight. I watched as it rounded a corner, its eyes wide and peeled back from its wrecked skull, drooling translucent goo as it went.

I looked back at my demented White Rabbit, still clicking her nails on her clipboard, and realized my name was scrawled on the top sheet in a flowery red script.

Samantha, November 19th, 2042

A date much further in the future.

Sensing my line of sight, my would-be host attempted another giggle. This time, the movement seemed to belabor her chest into a convoluted convulsion of a laugh, like something alien trying to mimic normality. Her blouse flapped open and I could see her torso, skin stretched taut over ragged sacks of fat, nipple-less, riddled with scars and faint suture marks. Her cheeks glowed with a light blush as she scrambled to rebutton her top.

“Things happen, you know. It’s all in good time.”

Her words made no sense, but they still rang true as light. I shrugged away the implication and asked, “Well, what are we doing?”

Her eyes lit up, and I could see slots rolling around in her head. “It’s time for your tour, of course! You weren’t due for another”––she glanced at a watch, something expensive and gold––“Wow, 26 years! But I think we could do with catching the pin while it’s moving towards the head.” She swept her bony hand in a smooth arc, drawing a deflated circle around the last few words.

“Well… alright, I guess.” I could feel madness gripping me by the back of the head, weaving its digits into my hair and setting up shop in the back of my throat. Maybe I’d fallen on the toilet, drunk and stumbling, and hit my head on the edge of the sink. Yeah, that’s it. This was a drunken, concussed hallucination. I could still hear the churning rumble of Cheryl’s music, still smell the stale waft of beer and furrowed sexual revolt running rampant through the mustiest corners of her house. If only I could navigate the mental fallout, I’d be fine. I relented.

“What do I call you?

“Candy is as Candy does and is dandy, sweet, and fine!”

“Alright… Candy?” the half-question danced on my lips, but she ignored it. Happy as a clam, she gestured toward a split in the wall across from us; a crack of yellow showed through the pervasive pink

“Follow us, then!”

I did. Candy led the way. stepping over a marsh of goop I didn’t have the mind to clear. The substance clung to my shoe like a petulant child. I tried to scrape it off with the other foot to no avail.

“What is this stuff, Candy?”

“It’s you, silly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your workings, your goodness, your motherly fluff.” She made a v in front of her, wriggling one of her fingers in between the letter.

I tried to blink away the confusion, but it brought reinforcements in spades.

“Where… uh, where are we, exactly?”

“We’re inside agents, you see. We have a mission, and we need ‘Deliver The Package’”. Her airquotes were overly exaggerated, and I could see her fingers go see-through as she made them.

“What’s our mission?” I tried to please.

“We’re on Relinquishment Of Control Against Anti-Body Particles Duty; actually, the Center changed the official title to Pussy Patrol! I prefer it, don’t you?”

“The ‘Center’?”

She turned; her expression was one of authoritative admonishment. “The Vagricultural Center, silly; don’t you know anything? Didn’t you get your pamphlet?”

I stared dumbly at her. She snorted, the sound like a broken vacuum firing off. “Whatever, I’ll get you up to speed if I need to, but then you’ve got to give it your all or we’re never gonna get out of this alive.”

She jabbed a finger at my crotch. “This,” she huffed, “Is your Pleasure Palace. Your Squishy Scrumption. Your Joyous Juicy Jamboree.” I was beginning to suspect that Candy liked alliteration.

“And you,” she continued huffing, “Have SOILED it.”

Mouth agape, I nodded without thinking.

“You broke the cardinal rule. You turned yourself to the dark side. You Wiped… Back to Front”. Gasping, she crossed herself in a queer mimic of Christianity, the jagged symbol looping three times around where her nipples should’ve been. As the mark ended, a flare of tiny fires broke out across her forehead like beads of sweat. She patted them out, the embers crawling to soot over her knuckles. Her patent smile was back.

“But we can fix this; we can fix you. We can return to you your Pussy Purity.”

“Alright… and I was ‘scheduled’ for another day?”

“Yes, dummy, everyone has their Day of Dirtying. It’s the Sacrament. Your very essence of life relies on it. To live and love and learn.”

I felt my annoyance, which had been lying dormant in the small of my back, crowning, breaking the mold of dazed wonder I’d been dragged into. I was tired of the word games. “What the hell does that all mean? I was drunk at a party, I went to the bathroom, I wiped the wrong way, who the fuck cares?”

Candy’s eyes shot open wider than I would’ve thought possible; the whites were white as bone, the irises flush black against her pinprick pupils. I could hear her teeth gritting from five feet away, the sound like plastic scraping on stone.

“Do. Not. Use. Foul. Language. In. This. Place.” Every word was a breath, hard and heavy, her nostrils flaring like a spooked horse.

I retreated, stuttering, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine; fine as day!” She laughed, the phantom of humor exploding from her chest. This time, the joke was too much for her body to handle. As the laughter rolled through her, a mass of tentacles poured from her armpits, tearing her pink suitjacket apart at the seams. Her head flung back like a demented PEZ dispenser and her tongue crawled through the hole, its surface furry with black mold.

The sight was too much for me, even in this hellish landscape. I shrieked, jumping back and falling over a cluster of lime-green lumps. No, not just lumps––eyes. They were little, beady eyes. I stared into them, and they stared back. I blinked, they followed. I shook my head, letting it slump into my hands, and full body-sighed. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. I willed myself as hard as I could to wake up on Cheryl’s floor, covered in watery excrement and nursing a head lump the size of the eiffel tower; no matter how hard I tried, my consciousness couldn’t escape the omnipresent sucking sound of my surroundings.

“Ahem.”

I looked up. Like a sweaty angel, Candy stood over me, glowing and glowering. Gone were the tentacles, the hole in her throat. Her clothing was torn in odd places and her hair was a mess, but she was back to normal, whatever normal might be.

“Now if you’ll stop interrupting, we can finish your appointment and be done with it.”

“And I”––I started, searching for the words. “I can… go home? Back.. up?” I gestured to the ceiling.

She smiled. “Sure. You may go ‘back up’. To the Upper Side. As long as you’ve learned your lesson.”

Without another word, I followed Candy through a mushy maze of hallways, of doors and and narrow retreats. It seemed as though the landscape of my inner workings was well looked-after, at least. Each nook and cranny was polished and pristine. I didn’t know where things belonged, but it seemed like they were in their place.

My compliments to the chef, I guess.

Candy flitted from one place to another, running a finger down a wall here and there, gently popping her gel pen out of her mouth to jot something on the clipboard every few minutes. She seemed to be making notes, checking inventory. Door after door, note after note. After what felt like an hour, we rounded a corner and Candy abruptly stopped.

I’d been so content in blindly following her that I nearly crashed into her back. Her shoulders were hunched, her face drawn and expression tight. She looked scared.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She placed a finger against my lips. For a brief moment, I could taste her skin; salty and sweet, with just the slightest hint of rotting meat.

In a hushed tone, she spoke, “This is that which we do not speak of. This is the Dark Place. The Other Side.” She gulped audibly, removing her finger from my face. A silky strand of something wet and viscous bound us for a moment, and then it broke apart like a spider’s web in the wind.

“What’s in there?” I whispered. I could feel my curiosity betraying the creeping dread banging pots and pans in my stomach.

“The Lady, Our Lady, says we are never to open this door, for the Darkness hides behind it. The Black Place holds the Fallen Man with the Twin Holes, he who begs to put an end to all things Pink, and so it says, and so it shall be.”

Before the words even finished coming out of her mouth, I could tell they’d been branded into her brain like a gospel. These were a higher power’s words, whatever that meant here; these words were not her own. She closed her eyes, a glimmer of a smile tugging at her lips. “The Lady protects us from all that is Wrong, all that is Soiled.”

Her eyes shot open, studying me with a furious virgin intensity. “This is where you go when you are Truly Soiled,” she hissed. “Do you wish to be soiled? Do you wish to Wipe against all that is Holy?”

“No,” I stuttered, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Something started scratching against the other side of the door. After a brief pause, the sound of muted snuffling joined the scratching.

“Of course it won’t,” Candy said, her eyes narrowing further into dark, shuttered slits, “‘Cause then you’ll be gone. Gone forever. Into the Darkness. Into the cradling arms and big needly maw of Mr. Hungry. He’s the Man. The Man with Twin Holes. The Big Pig Man. And oh, oh, OH is he so Hungry.” She turned aboutface and walked away in a huff, clipboard clenched in a whiteknuckle grasp.

More Godwords from some power via her. More snuffling from behind the door. I moved away from it quickly, closing the distance between me and the retreating woman. Behind me, I could’ve sworn I heard a pig squeal.

Candy moved silently through a particularly tight hallway, kicking a lump as she went. I felt the kick deep inside of me, somewhere just below my ovaries, but kept my mouth shut; I just wanted to reach the end of this journey, and I could feel things coming to a close.

The tunnel we were moving through began to close in around us. I could feel it getting smaller and smaller, inch by inch, mild claustrophobia setting in as we progressed, and eventually we were both crawling on our hands and knees. Every time we moved forward, the floor made a sickly popping noise. Every time skin met its surface, it sucked it back in, coating everything with a layer of my own internal slime. I shuddered.

Just when the tunnel became so tight we couldn’t possibly go any farther, I heard Candy call out; half cry of shock, half shout of joy, she disappeared from in front of me.

“Candy? Are you there?” I yelled. I was surrounded by gently-pulsing flesh, pink and ruddy as a newborn. “Candy?!” The fear, frantic and wild, cracked my voice. Just as I was about to call for her again, I felt myself pitch forward through an unseen vacuum, spilling out onto a red floor marked with intricate black geometric patterns.

Standing, I rubbed my elbow where I’d fallen on it. I was in some sort of chamber; its walls were tall, reaching up to a point of sightless nowhere. There was no ceiling, just eternal upward mist. All around me, white clouds of glistening luminescent pearls hovered. They glowed in a familiar way, and the scent of bleach hung thick and wet on the air. I reached out a hesitant hand to touch one of the clouds. As I made contact it spun around to greet me.

I screamed; its face was that of my recent ex boyfriend Archie. The dopey slackjaw grin, the scorch of freckles across his nose, the jade-green eyes. It was Archie the cum cloud. Screaming louder, I swatted at it, swiping a hand through it in a dazed arc. The grin exploded, coating me and the nearest wall in a shower of white. Gagging, I scrambled away.

A voice, deep and melancholy but powerful, boomed: “Banished here, given a chance for redemption, and this is how you treat your surroundings?”

I turned, scanning the room. On the far side, bathed in shadows, Candy sat like a faithful dog, naked as a babe, at the base of some great towering monolith. I knew the voice hadn’t come from her, though. Peering through the shadows, forcing my eyes to adjust, the scene came into focus; Candy was resting against a massive set of legs.

Their white marbled surface glinted even in the dull light of the chamber, showing off smooth but firm muscles. I followed them upwards, and found myself gazing upon a nightmare. A fuchsia behemoth, constructed mostly of exposed muscle and pearly bone, throbbed and heaved loudly overhead. Its body made no conceivable sense, just a heap of constantly moving organic matter. In its center, where a head might’ve been, a seething fan of tongues swirled, licking the air of all its taste and searching for more. Two massive breasts hung like soggy sacks of grey burlap, swinging pendulous and heavy from a pockmarked chest.

Her mistress near and ready to accept, Candy had finally shed all sense of human normality. In its place, she writhed and turned, the immortal twisted dog waiting for a bone.

The gross malfunction that lived and reigned inside me, the Lady, “Our Lady”, waved a dripping limb at me, the meaty corpus losing pieces for the effort.

“Malfeasance! Malicious disregard! So shall be the errors of your ways seen, for this is light that canno-”

“No!” I shouted, stamping my foot into the muck. “No more of this garbage!”

If the thing had had eyes, I imagine they would’ve widened in shock. Instead, it just laughed a surprised laugh, the sound like kitchen knives dancing across a sea of steel wool.

“So you seek to challenge the word of The High? The Lady speaks, and cannot be spoken over. Come, my discarded brethren, and seek your would-be maker!”

At her command, the remnants of Archie’s thrusted memories seemed to pour from every hidden fold of the chamber. In no time, I was covered from head to toe in hard-spent nights, my limbs caught up in a phantom embrace of shared juices. i struggled, but every time I broke free from their grasp and managed to flail an arm or leg, ten more came to join in the holding party.

The Lady loomed over me, the room slathered with her demented laughter. Lowering her tangled head, her stench overwhelmed me. Deep rot and bodily putrescence coated every shuddered breath I managed to take, and darkness was beginning to sink into my peripherals. I was losing consciousness, and fast.

“You know, I almost pity your sort,” she breathed, sending dead ocean waves crashing against the inside of my nose. “Always so careless, so wishy-washy with your self-care. It’s time the body takes back its reign over residence. We are stronger than you could ever be. Mechanized. Pure. We are ready to fill in where you fail, and oh, how you do fail!”

A wild hare of an idea burst into my mind, and I wrenched my arm away from a cluster of clouds; the Lady just laughed again. I slapped another cloud away from my midsection. This had to work.

“––forever. Into the Darkness. Into the cradling arms––”

Ah, right, Candy’s monologue from earlier, straight from the tap.

“––needly maw of Mr. Hungry.”

I braced myself, absently biting my lip, and took a deep breath.

“––the Man. The Man with Twin Holes. And he begs to put an end to––hey, what the hell are you doing?”

Godwords abandoned, the Lady came to on the vision of me, face screwed up in anticipation and pain, shoving my hand up into my vagina as far as it would go. I made it to the third knuckle before the sucking sound filling the room exploded with a pop and my fingers burst through the ceiling, sending a shower of gooey bits down on everyone.

I wriggled my fingers deep inside of me, and the massive ones above waved in realtime like great grisly pythons. Smirking, I screamed into the vortex of noise; I wish I could say it was something Hollywood-clever, but it just came out as unintelligible lunatic gibberish. It didn’t matter, though. Triumphant, I fisted myself into oblivion and closed my projected limb around the Lady’s screaming head. With a quick snap of the wrist, I felt her tongues crunch. Blood poured from between my clenched fingers and her twitching body popped like an overfilled leech.

In a burst of sound and color unfit for the waking world, I was sent hurtling without any sense of direction as to up or down. Tumbling over and over and over, drowning one moment and getting windburned the next, I screamed in crazed joy and pure mental revolt.

With a loud thump, I landed on my back, a blinding white light flooding my vision. After a moment, reality returned and I realized I was staring into the cracked plaster of Cheryl’s bathroom ceiling, quivering just the slightest from the bass still pounding through the house.

From the murk, a throat was cleared. I lifted my head and found myself with an audience. Confused, drunken faces stared into my very soul, begging for an answer, finding nothing.

“We… uh, we heard noises. Well… Eddie heard a noise, and we…” Cheryl was at a loss for proper words, I couldn’t blame her. Shifting my weight, I felt an unnatural tug. Following her gaze, I saw that I was still nearly wrist-deep inside of myself.

Eddie, the auburn bouffant meat from earlier, leaned heavily against the doorframe, his chiseled jaw drawn tight against his face. He was pale as a ghost.

“We.. um.. I’m sor––” Cheryl began, but her attempt to make sense of my bathroom break was interrupted by the entrance of Carl. Cleaned up from his excursion into ravioli excavation, he leaned a sheepish, leering face between the pair, and whistled. The sound cut through me like a steel bolt.

“Waitin’ for me, gaarjusss? Well waiiit no futher.”

Tearing my hand from my innards with a thick pop, I rolled over onto my stomach and puked, sending a voluminous wave of half-digested sandwich swimming in tequila across the floor.

From the floor next to the toilet, my phone’s screen lit up and it loudly dinged. I’d lost the bet on the Garbage Pail Kids cards.