Friday, January 09, 2004

He blamed his discomfort on the impertinent ladle and began to throttle it, pinching it murderously between thumb and forefinger with both hands. GGGGGGGK! he croaked. The poisonous gas sauntered disinterestedly through his clenched teeth and trachea, and nestled approvingly into his alveoli.

Foma thought he may have blacked out entirely, but it was difficult to judge with any certainty given the notable want of light at the bottom of the well.