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up down the street, I think.” “You go on if you want. I’m gonna listen to the show.” I watched in disgust as Mike staggered to the outer circle of the burp fans. “Blick!” “You’re a star, baby. Take the stage,” Mike yelled. The rest of the men turned toward Mike, scowls on their faces. Crash. The circle widened. Two hooters fighting like bagged cats stretched the woman’s tube top to where her elongated tits almost touched the bar. I could have sworn I saw her snatch peeking out from her denim miniskirt as she climbed to sit on a throne of spilled beer and bar nuts. Someone handed her a bottle of Bud. She drank deep. She opened her mouth. “Bl-ac-ac-ack and Decker!” The guys cheered. “You da bomb,” Mike announced. After another swill, she burped, “Ar-ac-ac-na cat!” “Sing it, baby,” Mike shouted. At that, she crawled to her knees. She teetered on her heels for a few seconds, and then stood, legs wobbly. She chugged down the rest of the beer. She belched, “Blick!” and threw the empty bottle across the bar, where it struck the back wall and shattered. The bartender, enthralled with the spectacle, awoke from his trance. “All right. Show’s over. Out. Now.” Ms. Blicks, my moniker for her since I never found out her real name, turned toward him. Her blue eyes blazed and she snarled at him. However, that didn’t put off Mike. He inched closer to her. He was beat out by a burly guy in a sweaty t-shirt and ball cap. The guy grabbed Ms. Blicks by the forearms and pulled her down. He wrapped his hairy arms around her. Unfortunately, they headed my way. A few feet from me he leaned to her and said, “I wanna stick my finger where you shit.” I was torn whether to laugh or gag. Just then Mike bounded over. He grabbed Ms. Blicks. “She’s coming with me.” The guy in the cap puffed out his chest. “She’s mine.” By then the bartender had come out from behind the bar. “I don’t care whose she is. Get her out of here.” Mike’s eyes pleaded with me. At the time I figured what the fuck and stuck out my leg. Ball-cap boy fell flat, giving Mike enough time to escape with his prize. I also figured I’d worn out my welcome and left right behind them. As I stepped outside I saw Ms. Blicks reach out with her red-clawed hand and drag Mike into a nearby alley. I waited a minute and approached them. I peered around the corner. Ms. Blicks had gotten hold of more beer somehow. She ignored Mike’s pawing and drank deep. She kept drinking and drinking until the whole bottle was empty and she had let it slip from her hand. Her mouth opened wide. Wider. Her mouth glistened. A golden iridescent bubble expanded from around her blood-red lips. I was too stunned to warn Mike, who probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway. By then he’d pulled down her tube top and was busy sucking on one of her ginormous tits. The bubble grew. And grew. It encompassed Mike. Then her lips moved. “Blick!” The bubble tore itself from her and rolled down the alley, past me, across the street, and onto a dumpster where it burst. The vibration ground Mike into the metal. His flesh flapped like butt cheeks after a beer fart. Except that Mike was the beer fart. A personified beer fart. Beer gas roiled out from his every orifice. The area sounded like a giant whoopee cushion sat on by a thousand people all at once. It was loud, long, and deafening. Mike’s body shook as if in orgasm. But the smell. The stench. It was worse than a thousand beer farts. The stench was oily, rotten, cheesy, breezy, stagnant. The stench was worse than a thousand dumps. Worse than a 10

Morpheus Tales Flash Fiction Horror Special

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