"Morris! You are not making me late again! If you're not in that car in five minutes I am leaving without you."
My mouth tasted death. Notice I didn't say like death. My memory's always fairly fuzzed after, "the shift," but I definitely remember that cop screaming in abject terror when he realized his bullets were less useful than a trojan in a eunuch's back pocket. And I definitely remember pulling bits of brain out of my ears.
Despite being the lackadaisical type, I was however, somewhat fanatical about the hygiene of my ears. You see when I was a kid, I got this horrible inner ear infection. The shitty doctor at the shitty emergency room came up with the brilliant diagnosis that I was growing potatoes in my ears and prescribed some shitty antibiotics accordingly.
Only problem was the antibiotics did jack shit on a biscuit to instigate a potato famine, and subsequently, with every passing day, the infection and accompanying pain intensified.
It got so I could not sleep at night. My new hobby became popping Tylenol like Pez and rocking myself in the fetal position. I kept telling my mother it was getting worse but bringing me back to the doctor never quite made it onto the itinerary.
Finally, my hearing started to fail. One afternoon, while gnawing on my cross-stitched blue summer blanket and praying for death to take me, my mother had stormed into my bedroom like a swarm of locusts.
"When I call you, you little fuckface, you fuckin' bloody well answer me!"
My mother grabbed my blue blanky in a petulant frenzy.
I had been ritualistically lifting my canine incisor up through a hole in the cross-stitching, tugging it against the fabric of the blanket; all in a doomed attempt to distract myself from the agony that was my inner ear.
My mother gave the blanket a violent tug and it came out from under me taking my tooth along for the ride. I screamed bloody murder whilst simultaneously hugging my mouth and head. Blood and pulp poured down my chin.
When my mother saw the state I was in she did not take me to the hospital. Rather, she called my father Herman and told him he needed to take me to the hospital. Herman the rocket scientist decided instead to take me to the dentist; three days later. Now the dentist, who wasn't retarded like my parents, both saw and smelled the pus dripping out of my ear and told Herman, in no uncertain terms, to take me to the Eye, Ear and Throat hospital forthwith.
Well, the long on the skinny was that my ear drum had almost been perforated and I had to take antibiotics for the rest of the summer. When I came home and Herman explained to my mother what had happened all she could say was, "I thought he was faking it. That's what happens when you, 'cry wolf!'"
Herman simply did what Hermans do best, which is to say that he left without another word.
Yeah, so when I found bits of the cop's brains in my ear I knew what to do. Out came the Q-Tips and hydrogen peroxide. There is simply no better way in the world to ensure the marvelous well-being of the sanctum sanctorum that is one's inner ear than to: swab your ears with Q-Tips dipped in peroxide, wait three minutes, then dry your ears with more Q-Tips. When the Q-Tips come out as white as they went in then you know you got some spiffy inner ear action going down.
Now, after last night's shift I do confess I had to perform the ritual no less than three times. I used to find all kinds of crap in my hair too but since becoming a, "night shifter," I started shaving my head. The woman I was married to told me I looked ridiculous but the truth was, after I went cue ball style, it was nothing short of a revelation; bitches love shaved heads.
They love to rub them. They love to hump them. They love to grab them. And I love to be loved.
"Morris. You fucking pathetic loser. If you're not downstairs in sixty seconds I'm leaving without you."
I checked myself in the mirror and finished buttoning my jacket. I cranked open the bathroom window and took a few pulls on the sour diesel. The sun was up. The birds were chirping.
"You're dressed to kill, Morris," I said to my reflection and hurried downstairs before the woman I was married to could play the nag card again.
On the ride into the city I munched a toasted onion bialy with cream cheese while the woman I was married to made brilliant conversation. It went a little like this:
Nag-nag-naggity-nag-nag-stop-smoking-pot-nag-nag-self-medicating-nag-nag-marriage-counseling-nag-ihhh-tee-nag; nag...nag, naaaag. Nnnnnnnnnnnuh-nnnnnnnnuh-nnnnnnnuh-nag!
"Morris!?!? Have you even heard a single word I've said?!?!?!"
"I need a butt."
"Don't you dare smoke in this car! Nnnnnuhhhh-naaag. Lung cancer-nnnnnnnnnagggggggg."
Well at least I had another day at the bank to look forward to. Eight hours later I was packing up my bag.
Bob the consultant poked his head in my cubicle.
"Well well well.... Look who decided to work late tonite for a change! How are ya, Morris?"
"Late? It's only 5:30, Bob."
"Dude. It's 6:30."
I panicked. I had lost track of the time. It would be dark in exactly 22 minutes.
"So Mor-"
I pushed past Bob and ran for the elevator bank. After what felt like an interminable wait the elevator finally made an appearance. My manager and his manager and a few of my teammates were on it. I shoehorned my way in and the doors closed.
"Hey Morris. We're going out for drinks. Come with?," Boris asked.
"Sor-"
The elevator lurched to a halt. The lights flickered. I felt a trickle of sweat slide between my butt cheeks. All I could think was: Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeoncomeon...
Boris said, "Not again! I vas stuck on zis damned elevator for almost a half hour last night."
My manager Ernie rang the service bell. A moment later a voice announced through the speaker, "We're experiencing technical issues with elevator banks three through six. The Fire Department and building maintenance have been notified. Please remain calm."
Just then Meatloaf's, "Paradise by the dashboard lights," rang-toned on my cell. It was the woman I was married to.
"Just once. Just once I thought it would be niiiiiiiiiice if you were home for dinner Morris. But I guess that's just toooooooooooooo much to ask."
"Yeah, I love you too, hon. Talk to you later."
Fifteen minutes later we were still in the elevator. Suddenly I felt light headed. A bead of sweat slid down my nose. I felt my stomach go queasy and before I could help it I ripped a mad cream cheese, cop-brain and coffee fart with terrifying alacrity.
The elevator's entire population looked askance at me.
In their collective defense, they tried to pretend it did not smell like the rank death that it most certainly did smell like; most probably because it was rank death. Everybody covered their mouths and noses but the gesture was futile at best. I remember vaguely thinking that nitrogenously necrified vapors were soon to become the least of their worries.
My manager's last words were, "Why don't these clowns get this elevator moving already?"
Somewhere off the Hudson's vast horizon the sun bade the day farewell in earnest. I felt my entire being tremble like a bear on a fuzzy tree. My skin began to bubble like New England clam chowder on a high flame. A moment later, as if one greek chorus, my managers and colleagues screamed. I merely hissed.
The elevator suddenly lurched into motion, but alas, it was too late.
Back in the lobby the elevator finally put in a much belated appearance. Its doors slid open as if it were not carrying a payload of zombie fodder. Not somebody, but almost everybody, with the lone exception of Hector, from building maintenance, screamed. Hector simply stammered, "wwwwh-wwuhwhhut the fuck, mang?"
When I came to I was back in my bathtub and the sun was on the rise. I noticed little bits of skin beneath my fingernails and I immediately went for the Q-Tips and peroxide. I ran the shower and watched the red water circle the drain. My mouth tasted vaguely of taco bell, sour vagina and cheap tequila. Images of death, destruction and shameless cannibalism ran through my mind's eye. The day shift was beginning.
Then I remembered the elevator. And my colleagues. And poor Hector.
An hour later I was clean as a whistle and feeling my chipper self. I climbed into bed. Next to me, the woman I was married to, stirred from her slumber. Predictably, she was her usual chipper self.
"Let's see how late you can be to work today, Morris," she pondered aloud.
"Honey. You know...; you're right. I have been neglecting you something awful."
"You're jok-"
"No. I'm serious as a dog with a bone. As a matter of fact I've even made a reservation for us at that little bed and breakfast in the Poconos. So pack a bag cause we're not going to work today."
"Oh, Morris! You remembered my birthday! It's been...; years!?!?!"
I slapped the woman I was married to in her ever expanding ass. It rippled like the misery that was my existence.
"Let's get a move on. We don't want to waste the day."
Images of onion bialy and vegetable cream cheese danced through my head.
The sun had almost set behind the mountain.
"Morris. Why can't it always be like this? This was the best day we've had in years."
"You had a good time?"
"Yes. Now only if you'd stop self-medicating with marijuana and we could start a family."
"Would that make you happy?"
"Yes!"
The last of the sun disappeared. I looked into the eyes of the woman I had married. Then I ripped a hot cream cheese and Boris/Hector fart. The woman I had married caught a whiff of death and gagged.
I felt the fingers of my hands begin to stretch and gnarl. The woman I had married punched me in the chest and yelled, "Morris! That's so rude!!!!!"
A big flap of skin fell from my hairy chest where she'd punched me. My tongue elongated and an involuntary snarl fell from my big ass lips. Everything grew hazy as the hunger washed over me in tandem with the darkness.
"Morr-"
Tomorrow I was sure to be ripping hot cream cheese and, "the woman I had been married to," farts. The night shift had begun.
Originally posted on r/nosleep under the pen name mypumassmellfunky.
