Faux-hawk Léo
Friday was a big day and I am still recovering.
While Mook A was being tended to by his nurse, Mook B has the audacity to go out and leave me alone. Well, there's always a way to deal with that: eat something valuable. I found the connector to the fax machine and made quick work of it.
Mistake...I almost immediately started feeling awful—something about undigested plastic in your gut and trying to get it out. It wouldn't come up and I knew it would just go on and then...Lordie!...come out the other end. I tried to remember how big a piece of plastic I had swallowed—fast!—when A came at me after the nurse left. It must have been big all I knew at the time is that I had to get rid of the evidence.
As I was dealing with this the Mooks decided it was finally time for my bath and although, on principle, I am against this kind of fiddling about with my person, the hot water did feel good, especially with my digestion working overtime.
That night even the Mooks knew something was wrong because I did not want any supper. I just wanted to go to bed.
The next day I was firing off gas with the frequency and pungency of a week-old cadaver. It got so bad even I couldn't stand it and kept changing places in the house, trying to leave behind a smell that would make a puppy-mill hound weep. The Mooks opened the windows and A said of the smell and of me, "I think he's already dead and just walking around. Zombie dog." Ha-fucking-ha mofo.
Saturday night, relief. It wasn't pretty, it was on the rug, and it did not smell as if I had shot a bouquet of roses out my arse. The Mooks freaked. A even took a pill and bitched about me being a retard, again and that he could not deal with another sick dog.
I slept like the dead and has returned to normal. Just goes to show you: you really should watch what you eat.
The Bath
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