The Feces Machine

A man returns home after a hard day's work to find a 10 foot deep, cylindrical hole made of stainless steel in his living room.


1. The Nuclear Asshole In My Living Room


The heat!




It's almost unbearable. Driving home from work in a stupid little car with a stupid little air conditioning unit that doesn't fucking work. On top of that, the other drivers seem to be more rude than usual. They all seem to be in a hurry. Pointless really. Hurrying anywhere. It's an exercise in futility. Putrid asphalt. Fresh tar stink. Examined in monotonous dregs. Stiffened by years of meaningless fluffing. Feathers don't work so well anymore. Heathen stingers. Bumble bee orgies. Generous living fused to the backside of my unfortunate skull. Heaven help us all(into a fucking meat grinder). This world is a surgeon's plaything.

After some mindless rambling, I arrive at my modest abode. It's looking a little more modest than usual, but that might just be the heat. Elephant. Some of the neighbor kids have been playing in my yard. They left their shit everywhere-not their literal shit, that would just be weird and unnerving. Little kids taking dumps in my yard. Why would they even...? Gah, nevermind.

My doorknob makes a tight, creaking churn. It's stuck, dammit! I yank for a few minutes until it finally gives in. Stubborn piece of metal. Your insubordination will not go unpunished. I plan to replace you tomorrow. Then you'll be sorry!

The first thing I notice about my house when I step through the front door, is the smell. It smells like Satan's unwiped ass crack in here. Something like Gene Simmons's colonic poured into a giant porcelain wine glass. I pinch my nose in great disgust and try desperately to locate the source of the stench. Reeking hands of noxious, invisible fragrance force large tears of repulsion down my cheeks. It's one of those smells. The kind that burns your eyes.

It's coming from my living room. Everything's in its place. Everything except that stupid rug I received as a house warming gift from a coworker who I fancied at one point. It used to reside in between my couch and my television. It's been replaced by a large hole. I would try and make an estimate of its radius, diameter and circumference, but I don't want to, so there.

I step carefully to the edge and peer into this surprise indentation of my floor. It is made entirely out of metal. Smooth metal that resembles the nicest stainless steel from Macy's. Seamless. It's perfectly cylindrical inside. I think it's about ten feet deep-yeah, I made an estimate with that. I wanted to do it that time. If you dislike the inconsistencies in my personality you can go fuck yourself.

My lunch jumps into my throat as I start to vomit from the overwhelming aroma emanating from the shiny, metal hole. I don't mind puking much as long as it's from something benign like getting drunk, eating a bad piece of fish or smelling the bowels of hell. But as I look into the nasty, multicoloured stomach mulch I have placed on the floor, I see something that gives me the urge to run screaming like a maniac. There's a writhing, mucous covered...thing in the vomit. It's like a tadpole but the size of a small rat snake. How long was that in my stomach? How the fuck did it get there?

The hole starts putting off a very chemical kind of heat. This alarms me, so I rush to the back of my house and fiddle with the combination lock on a small safe in a blanket closet. I return with a Geiger counter. Why do I have a Geiger counter? That's classified.

The hole. The thing's so radioactive it's not even funny. I should be dying right now. I step back from the stinky cylinder cautiously. I step back right onto the tadpole-thing. It lets out an ear piercing squeal. I look at the thing under my foot. To my absolute horror, the "tadpole's" growing. Rapidly.

It sprouts legs and arms. It convulses violently as it gets to be about my height. It develops facial features. Amphibianesque facial features. It stands slowly in front of me. I fall on my ass and scoot away from it as quickly as I can. It follows me. I get back on my feet and rush to the kitchen. I go through the cupboard, looking for my pistol. Again, don't ask. I find it and check to see that it's loaded. 

A slimy hand wraps around my wrist with a death grip like no other. I watch, stunned, as my hand shrivels into a wrinkled, prune-like deformation. The large amphibian looks me in the face with pale, blank eyes. With a monotone asexual voice it says, "No. You may not jeopardize the assignment. "


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