Tagged: bonus points

Isolde Grinned Up At Me

  • by Kentwith a thin little nose between silver-rimmed spectacles
  • So why did the building planners put two toilets in the same stall?
  • They could… “experiment” on you
  • “Wash your face before you hug your mother,”
  • missing only one thing: a unicorn

Tune in next time part 462      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Isolde grinned up at me from the floor where she sat in a veritable heap of newborns.

“Does this fortress have an obstetrician!” I bellowed.

“Relax,” Isolde lilted. “I’ve already asked about it.”

A door opened and an elderly woman with a thin little nose between silver-rimmed spectacles marched in. Her ears bore multiple piercings, most of them festooned with shark’s teeth, and her exposed shoulders and forearms were coated in elaborate circus-themed tattoos. She tutted, drying her hands with a paper towel. “So why did the building planners put two toilets in the same stall? I’m serious here, I’m asking, so if some wise-ass says ‘to get to the other side’ I’m turning right back around.” She fixed me with a look over the tops of her glasses. “Do you know? You look like you’re in charge around here. Anyway, it does create opportunities to get to know each other, if you’re open-minded.”

Too many bizarre things had happened too rapidly, leaving my mind susceptible to her grandmotherly charm. Inwardly I stammered in search of an answer. They hoped it… They didn’t… They could… “experiment” on you in there? Fortunately none of it was out loud.

“Yes, I’m an obstetrician, and I’m also a doula and a sixth-degree black belt and I’m here to save the day.” The old woman stooped and hefted one of the tiny babies. “Wash your face before you hug your mother,” the multi-talented fortress obstetrician said, producing a pack of sterile wipes from her bag and cleaning the infant all over.

“Thank you,” Isolde said, accepting the clean babe while the woman proceeded to the next one. “What is your name?”

“You may address me as Doctor Nanna, all the cool kids are doing it.”

In what seemed like no time at all Isolde cradled her entire litter, all cleaned up, and four footmen arrived with a palanquin to convey her to the nursery that I hadn’t known was being prepared for the royal rugrats. But Isolde clearly liked it, with all its cartoony clouds and candy-colored, trademark-infringing bears. So, I said, “I hope you like it.”

Doctor Nanna spoke up, saying, “Not too shabby. It’s missing only one thing: a unicorn.”

The twitch of her left eyelid might have been an incidental, involuntary thing, but for the fact that “missing a unicorn” was Hopscotch Academy slang that only the teachers had ever employed.

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Isolde was Still Struggling to Stand

  • by jeneach wore different colored goggles
  • never had a sandwich before
  • obscured by unmoving clouds
  • he was double her age
  • scattered on the carpet

Tune in next time part 461      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Isolde was still struggling to stand as I raced from the room in pursuit of the kidnapping faux-yeti. In the courtyard I skidded to a halt. Arlo was there in the snow, locked in the stocks. His yeti head had been removed, exposing his bald scalp, which was now quite pink. I looked around in alarm. If Arlo was imprisoned, then who had abducted my brother? And why?

Near the outer wall I saw a phalanx of what appeared to be yeti. There were at least a dozen of the furry white things, and each wore different colored goggles and nothing else. The one with Jim over his shoulder loped across the icy cobblestones toward his comrades. Obviously they couldn’t be real yeti, since there was no such thing. They were probably a group of insurrectionists, the sort of malcontents who never had a sandwich before without finding something to complain about.

The “yeti” near the wall hooted at each other and then formed themselves into a human pyramid (or rather a yeti-pyramid). The one carrying Jim bounded up the stack of hairy bodies and vaulted over the wall before I could reach him. The others followed and disappeared up into the mountains, the tops of which were obscured by unmoving clouds and the ongoing blizzard.

Well, shit.

It was then that I remembered I was a General, and I didn’t have to do all this running around. I ordered a squadron of yodelers to give chase and retrieve my brother.

As I made my way back to the throne room, I thought about Isolde. She was my wife’s sister, and I had always found her most beautiful. Acting as Harry’s proxy for their wedding and wedding night was a highlight of my recent past, even if it did end with her wed to Harry. He was a toad-featured Junior Baronet, and he was double her age. I had no idea what she saw in him. And I had no idea what she was doing here at Enigma Fortress while he was in legal trouble and she was so close to giving birth.

I entered the throne room and immediately had to revise my musings. Isolde was no longer close to giving birth. She sat on the floor, beaming, with babies scattered on the carpet around her.

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I Made Sure I Had Jim’s Attention

  • by KentI want the hair
  • moved from gross to turbo-gross
  • Do not give this woman an inch.
  • just because she feeds me well
  • dealt with outrage my whole life

Tune in next time part 460      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I made sure I had Jim’s attention, and said, “I clean the drains because I want the hair.” With this utterance our conversation moved from gross to turbo-gross, but for the next several minutes my brother would be incapable of saying anything untrue. He blinked as if startled by a sunbeam, then stared vacantly ahead. The trance was in effect.

“What’s the deal with bringing Isolde out here?” I demanded. The well-being of those offspring was my primary concern.

Jim sounded like a southern-fried robot. “Do not give this woman an inch.”

“Hey!” Isolde exclaimed. She began struggling up from the couch, which was evidently going to take her a while.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” I said.

“She thinks she can keep me fooled,” Jim drone-drawled, “just because she feeds me well, but her scheme is obvious to me.”

“What scheme?” I pressed. The trance prevented lying, but clearly still permitted him to speak in riddles. Isolde continued wrestling unsuccessfully with gravity, her frustration growing into outrage. I was unimpressed, having dealt with outrage my whole life.

Jim said, “Her scheme to–” but he got no further before a white-furred bipedal abomination burst into the chamber and seized him up. The ease with which it carried my brother away had me wondering if this one was an actual yeti. No! It had to be Arlo, that dick, abducting Jim while he would be unable to provide false answers under interrogation.

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Isolde Crooked Her Finger

  • by jenpractically kissing my cheek
  • name of your sex tape
  • capable of extraordinary cruelty
  • the ice-master caught the first sight
  • winning the war against time

Tune in next time part 459      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Isolde crooked her finger, beckoning me closer and closer until her eyelashes were practically kissing my cheek. She whispered, “The soothsayers soothsay it’s triplets, at least. Harry is just thrilled.”

“Is that why he’s causing scenes at cotillions?” I asked snippily. I hadn’t forgotten that Fleur expected me to act as Harry’s lawyer.

“Causing Scenes at Cotillions,” said Jim. “I do believe that’s the name of your sex tape, brother.”

Isolde trilled a high-pitched laugh. She obviously found Jim charming. My brother had that effect on women, largely because they didn’t know he was capable of extraordinary cruelty. At the Academy, the Ice-Master caught the first sight of Jim’s mean streak, and the poor man was never the same again.

I stood to my full height and straightened my General’s frock coat, vest, and cravat. “So, Jim, I am to believe that you flew through a blizzard in an airship to tell me that Freya wants to see me, when either you or she are perfectly capable of sending a telegram? And Isolde, who is barely winning the war against time in regards to delivering her children, just tagged along for fun?”

It was time to deploy that lie-suppressing trigger phrase.

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We Were Intercepted At the End of the Gangplank

  • by Kent“Hwaaaaaah.”
  • thankfully I never had to see Santa again
  • traveling with your lobster
  • your thick head of hair and your killer gams
  • Flip out about this, won’t you?

Tune in next time part 458      Click Here for Earlier Installments

We were intercepted at the end of the gangplank by YoYo. “Yes,” I said, knowing she was going to make an insubordinate inquiry as to my involvement in Isolde’s gravid condition. “And it’s twins.”

To this, YoYo only said, “Hwaaaaaah.” It seemed she remembered that she was in the presence of royalty on the verge of saying something disrespectful. She stepped out of the path of the new arrivals, and their retinue with me in their lead. We proceeded to the throne room where the weary travelers could recline until their chambers were prepared.

But not Jim. I cornered him before he could stretch out on a chaise. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I bear a message from our sister,” he replied in his eternally smirking drawl.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Freya wants to see you,” Jim said.

My last sight of Freya, she had been in the company of an unclean Santa, allegedly an operative. I looked forward to being reunited with my sister, but thankfully I never had to see Santa again.

Naturally, I couldn’t trust anything Jim told me. He had to be tested. I jerked my head toward Isolde in her impractical red dress. “I see you’re traveling with your lobster. Is that wise, when she’s so far along?” Suddenly I foresaw the babies being born here, at Enigma Fortress, an image so upsetting that I forgot I was building up to an implanted trigger phrase that would have temporarily suppressed Jim’s ability to lie. It made me furious. “I can’t believe you think you can float in here, with your thick head of hair and your killer gams, and there will never be any reckoning!”

Jim’s smirk quirked to the right, which I’d never seen it do before. I knew how to read all his subconscious facial tics, and this one wasn’t on my list. He said, “Flip out about this, won’t you? It’s what we’ve come all this way to witness.”

“Well, it’s madness!” I exclaimed. I whirled to Isolde. “What about you? What do you have to say for yourself?”

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“What is That Racket?”

  • by jengeneral costumes
  • is kinda like cilantro
  • wearing a long crocheted dress and, I was certain, even from my distance, no brassiere
  • lunk-headed older brother
  • dictionary definition of quixotic

Tune in next time part 457      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“What is that racket?” I asked.

“That’s the zeppelin detection system,” said the first guard.

“Someone is arriving from the capital,” said the second.

“What about the blizzard?” I asked. The heavy snow was the reason I had been stranded here when my wife summoned me.

“The royal zeppelins all have flame-throwers,” said the first guard. “But of course you know that, General. I suspect you’re just testing us.”

“Of course, of course.” Did my zeppelin have a flame thrower? If so, why had everyone pretended I was snowed in? Motioning to Arlo, I said, “Take this criminal to the stockade.”

The guards saluted and hustled the whimpering Arlo off. I grabbed a roll of glitter storm tape and returned to my quarters to figure out which of my general costumes I should put on now. It would help if I knew exactly who was on the incoming airship. Contrarian military garb is kinda like cilantro — some people enjoy it while others are genetically predisposed to find it repulsive. For the most part I’m in the former category (who doesn’t like to look fancy?), but I was getting a little tired of all the quick-changes.

Down the zeppelin’s gangway waddled a heavily pregnant Isolde. She was not dressed for the weather, wearing a long crocheted dress and, I was certain, even from my distance, no brassiere. I couldn’t fathom what business she had at Enigma Fortress. Shouldn’t she be somewhere near a maternity hospital, so close to giving birth? And wasn’t her husband Harry in some sort of trouble? My confusion only grew when I saw who was with her: my rapscallion brother Jim.

The two of them approached and we made all of the appropriate courtly gestures of greeting. Jim stage-whispered to Isolde, “My lunk-headed older brother looks surprised to see us.”

Trying to track all of the inter-familial machinations in my life was the very dictionary definition of quixotic.

“Let’s get you inside where it’s warm,” I said. I may have been acting as Harry’s proxy when I impregnated Isolde, but my protective impulses toward the children she was carrying were genuine.

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I Heard the Distinctive Tromping Cadence

  • by Kentdiplomats of any rank
  • dissolved into just the notion of an omelette
  • having an extra nipple
  • recover hope all ye who enter here
  • mind-bending music

Tune in next time part 456      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I heard the distinctive tromping cadence of a guard patrol in the corridor.

“Don’t move!” I barked at Arlo. Then I hauled the door open and summoned the guards into the room. “Arrest this foreign agitator!” I ordered.

“Who, the yeti?” asked the first guard.

Arlo had put the furry mask back on over his shiny bald head. Fine.

“Yes, the yeti!” I said. A smile crept onto my face. “Arrest it, or, treat it in the customary manner. I am told that in the Paradoxica region, you use every part of the yeti.”

“Never mind that,” said the second guard. “But might I inquire as to your business in this tape storeroom? The signage clearly indicates–”

“I am a general, and I am in command of this fortress. That’s my business in this and every room. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir. Except, you see, while diplomats of any rank are free to peruse the tape stockpile, military personnel, including all officers, must be properly escorted.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Take the yeti and chop it up and throw it in the larder. Better yet, it’s fresh. Why not make stock? Simmer it until its bones have dissolved into just the notion of an omelette. I’ll worry about the glitter storm tape later.”

They rousted Arlo to his feet, him still making his pathetic imitation animal grunts. I was surprised he maintained the charade, given my suggestions for how to deal with a ‘yeti’ like him.

“Bit short for a yeti, isn’t he?” asked the first guard.

“Oy, ew!” exclaimed the other. “Can’t cook with any shrimpy yeti having an extra nipple. Too gamey!”

The yeti costume worn by Arlo was indeed equipped with a supernumerary nipple. And in the armpit, a tattoo reading “recover hope all ye who enter here.”

I harrumphed. “In that case, let’s go back to where we started: arrest him!” And I yanked on the costume’s headpiece. It didn’t come off, and Arlo made sad whimpering noises.

“No disrespect, sir, but we do try not to mistreat the yetis. We hunt them for sport and meat, sure. But we never pull their hair.”

“This is no yeti,” I insisted, but they were openly doubtful. We were all interrupted by a new sound from the corridor, mind-bending music like a swarm of wasps skimming the inner contours of a sousaphone.

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Like Any Good Bureaucracy

  • by jen(read: glitter storm)
  • visited the forbidden basement
  • I almost gasp
  • murmured to the trembling creature
  • “Gimme a fucking break, girlie!”

Tune in next time part 455      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Like any good bureaucracy, Contraria makes liberal use of red tape. But only in the low country during the week of the new moon every other leap year. The University of Pittsburghistan offers doctorate level studies in proper tape usage, and without a degree from that hallowed institution it’s impossible to enter the diplomatic corps.

This being the Paradoxica Mountains, and the moon being a waxing crescent, with the barometric pressure falling, I needed pale blue tape with multicolored sparkles (read: glitter storm). Enigma Fortress kept their tape in an underground vault behind a door marked “No Admittance: Authorized Personnel Only.” Being the highest ranking officer in the fortress I decided I was authorized, and so visited the forbidden basement to get the consecrated tape and other stationery supplies to file my report.

I almost gasped when I flipped on the fluorescent lights and beheld a shaggy white bear-like beast huddled in the corner. It looked for all the world like a yeti, but that was obviously ridiculous. I approached slowly and murmured to the trembling creature, hoping to get a better look and determine if it was actually a dog or what.

Its growls sounded like a person imitating an animal more than an actual animal. I screwed up my courage and tugged on the furry head. It came right off, exposing the pink bald scalp I had hoped to never see again.

“Arlo!” I spat. “I knew you were behind the poisoning attempt. Why are you disguised as a mythical creature?”

“Gimme a fucking break, girlie!” my nemesis cried. “Everyone knows that yeti are real!”

“I’m assuming you don’t know what they do with yetis here in the mountains.”

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“Soap Poisoning?”

It’s New Year’s Eve! What better excuse for another joint writing prompt? Unfortunately the most famous traditional song for this particular holiday has very few lyrics that anyone would recognize, and half of those are in Scottish. So we went another way with our inspiration. Can you guess it?

Once again, Jen goes first with Kent batting cleanup.

Next week we’ll return to our usual schedule of one prompt each. Happy New Year!

  • all is quiet
  • world in white
  • with you night and day
  • nothing changes
  • be with you again
  • under a blood red
  • crowd has gathered
  • arms entwined
  • newspaper says it’s true
  • torn in two

Tune in next time part 453 & 454      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Soap poisoning?” I felt queasy. “Drinking soap wouldn’t be good for you, but surely it isn’t fatal.” I hoped.

“I’m just telling you what the autopsies show,” said YoYo. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

I belched again, releasing a fusillade of bubbles. Not wanting to take a chance with something so dire, I ran to my luxurious ensuite and made myself vomit into the alabaster commode. I rinsed my mouth and returned to my bedchamber where YoYo stood, looking puzzled.

“I think my Ovaltine was tainted,” I said. “It disagreed with me.”

YoYo pressed her ear against my stomach for a few seconds. “All is quiet now, General,” she said.

“I think that’s a good sign. Assuming I survive the night, what further duties might I be expected to perform?” I was beginning to wonder if the rank of general was purely ceremonial, and if I would be tasked next with parading around the world in white shoes or something equally meaningful.

“The Royal Contrarian Mountain Police will arrive this evening in their sled pulled by mountain goats. They will work with you night and day to determine who it was who poisoned your predecessors.” She crinkled her nose and shook her head. “But don’t get your hopes up for actual justice. These investigations are all for show, and nothing changes no matter what they uncover.”

I crossed the room to my wardrobe and began a perusal of the many uniforms it held. Which one should I wear for my first meeting with the RCMP and their goats? Contrarian tradition is very particular.

YoYo cleared her throat.

“Dismissed,” I said.

“But General,” she simpered. “They won’t arrive for several hours. There’s time for me to be with you again so that you can learn to love me like the cards said.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I said over my shoulder. “Take those cards with you.” She looked crestfallen. But, much as I enjoyed YoYo physically I couldn’t afford to indulge her outlandishly romanticized ideas about us. I turned to face her. “Take those cards with you, and that’s an order.”

I stared imperiously until she complied, then turned back to the selection of military finery in my closet. Maybe I should have tried to bargain with YoYo for advice about the proper uniform for the occasion, but it was too late now. I was on my own, so I decided to wear the one with the indigo vest under a blood red tail coat. It looked both pompous and outdated, so it probably projected a great deal of authority in Contrarian culture.

There were so many epaulettes and sashes and ribbons and medals and sock garters, it took the better part of half an hour for me to dress myself. Once fully decorated, I left my quarters and attempted to retrace my steps to the courtyard. Along the way I met the yeoman yodeler who had brought me my soapy beverage. He looked quite surprised at my appearance, and I snagged him by the collar and placed him under arrest. Perhaps the RCMP would not be needed after all.

I shouted orders and a military tribunal was quickly convened. “The crowd has gathered samples of soap from every corner of this fortress,” I said. “We’ll see which matches the residue in my Ovaltine glass.”

The glass had been sent down to the fortress’s basement laboratory, along with all the soapy samples. When the analysis was complete, the results were brought to the hall of tribunal by a cadre of alchemists who entered the hall in ascending order of height — arms entwined — until the final member of the retinue had to duck to pass through the door.

“Tell us,” I declaimed, “what you have ascertained about this vile assassination attempt!”

The alchemists began to sing in four-part harmony. They started with ‘Sweet Adeline,’ as per tradition, and eventually came around to the results of their analysis: the soap was unlike any found in the fortress, and was in fact Svenborgian in origin.

“Arlo,” I muttered. “That dick.” He must be making another play for Fleur.

While the alchemists continued their concert, I had the yeoman yodeler thrown in the brig, then telegrammed my wife at home in Funkistan, warning her of the Viscount’s treachery.

Her reply was, “I won’t believe it until the newspaper says it’s true.”

I sent another message, a long rant about her blindness to Arlo’s nefariousness. The telegrapher’s wrist was aching by the time he sent the whole thing. Then, of course, per Contrarian security protocols the entire message had to be calligraphed as well, for the express purpose of being torn in two so that each piece could be burned separately to ensure it didn’t fall into enemy hands.

Reformation of Contrarian military comms procedures suddenly leapt to the forefront of my goals for how to use my influence. But, later. I had other things to tend to first.

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“And in Conclusion”

Happy belated Solstice!

For this year’s Skelleyverse Holiday Extravaganza On Ice, we’ve decided to combine forces and gift you with one bonus-size edition of our chain story, instead of the usual two smaller entries. Our prompt phrases this time all come from a single source: beloved movie A Christmas Story.

Jen will start. She’ll write until she works in the first phrase, then hand the keyboard over to Kent. We’ll alternate until we get to the end of the list.

Have a joyful season, however you choose to celebrate.

  • I can’t put my arms down
  • Only I didn’t say “fudge”
  • Not a finger!
  • you’ll shoot your eye out
  • this thing in the stock which tells time
  • Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
  • soft glow of electric sex
  • It’s a major award!
  • I triple-dog-dare you!
  • It was… soap poisoning

Tune in next time part 451 & 452      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“And in conclusion,” YoYo said, “That’s how I know that ‘twins’ are merely a trick done with mirrors.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “I myself am a twin.”

YoYo made an elaborate show of looking around the room, lifting the blankets to peer under them, craning her neck all around. “I see only one of you.”

“Jason’s not here,” I said. “We’re identical, not conjoined. He’s off somewhere causing trouble, no doubt.”

YoYo sighed sadly. “I had hoped that you would see things my way and that I would be able to finally stop this endless struggle and lay my weapons aside, but I can’t put my arms down yet. Not so long as people like you are out there denying the truth of yetis and lying about the existence of twins.”

“All I can tell you is, I have never seen a yeti but I have seen lots of twins.” Arguing about this was making my head feel soft. “Maybe we just need to accept each other’s differing views, and move on.”

YoYo pointed to her tarot spread. “You denied this, too. You told me I don’t love you, despite the clear message in these infallible instruments of prophecy!”

“Oh, fudge,” I said. Only I didn’t say “fudge” — what I said was a word in Olde High Contrarian that doesn’t really translate but sounds just like “fudge” and means, basically, “please drop this tedious conversational topic, put your clothes on, and give me a few minutes alone to think.”

“It’s like that, is it?” said YoYo. “Fine, General. Have it your way.” She stood and whipped the blankets out from under the tarot cards like a magician denuding a dining table, leaving the intricate card configuration undisturbed upon the mattress. She gathered the blankets around herself like a robe and gave me a particular kind of salute that used only a single finger. Not a finger! How insubordinate!

“I hope that’s not your trigger finger,” I quipped. “Cuz you’ll shoot your eye out on the target range if it is.”

YoYo flounced from the room in a swirl of bedding. I wondered how she would feel about twins after giving birth to some.

Exhausted from my afternoon’s sweaty exertions, I fell asleep. I was awakened sometime later by the fortress’s dinner bell. I was starving. As I rolled out of bed, I noticed that the tarot cards had been shuffled about by my naptime thrashing (my legs tend to be quite restless). Maybe their new message would dissuade YoYo from the ridiculous notion that she was in love with me. I barely had time to put my pants on before the door swung open and a soldier entered, bearing my meal on a tray. It was a simple meal, merely a small loaf of bread and a bowl of thin soup. I prodded the soup with my spoon and discovered this thing in the stock which tells time. That is to say, a pocket watch. Who could have slipped such an item into my dinner. And why?

I was so hungry that I ate the soup anyway. As I dipped the bread to soften it and then gnawed the soggy loaf, I took a shot at decoding the disarrayed tarot cards on the bed. To my amazement there seemed to be something there, if I treated it as an instance of the soothsayer’s code. B… E… S… U… Maybe I was mistaken about it being meaningful, but I plowed on, spiraling into the center of the chaotic spread. R… E… T… O… And eventually, I had a complete phrase.

“Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.”

Just then came another knock on my door, and a soldier entered bearing a glass of what looked like rich, creamy, chocolate milk.

At this point I became unsure that anything from the past several hours had actually happened. Perhaps those mushrooms hadn’t been aphrodisiac purple rangers. Perhaps they had instead been hallucinogenic purple paladins. But the soft glow of electric sex emanating from my groin told me that at least some of the events had indeed occurred.

“Do you ever have one of those days?” I asked the soldier. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You should apply for the Lost Marbles. It’s a major award! Only the most tragically insane have a shot at winning, but from what the rumor mill is saying about you, General, I think you should enter.”

I surged to my feet in outrage as the yeoman yodeler said, “Enter the contest, General. I triple-dog-dare you!”

The presumptuous soldier quickly set down the glass and darted backwards from my quarters, pulling the door shut behind him. I retrieved the beverage and raised it to my lips, but something about its aroma halted me before sipping. I swirled the drink and took another whiff of the odd bouquet, trying to identify it. The salty broth of my soup, after so much perspiration earlier, had left me quite parched. Whatever type of smoothie the concoction was, it didn’t seem very thirst-quenching, but it was probably better than nothing.

I pinched my nose and chugged it.

There came yet another knock on my door. I burped and said, “Enter.”

It was YoYo. I was very surprised by her return, so soon after our rancorous conversation. She said, “I forgot to tell you this earlier. As I’m sure you know, the last four generals who ran Enigma Fortress died mysteriously.” I did not know this. “The autopsy results have finally come back.” As she spoke, she dug in her pocket and then squinted at a crumpled paper scrap to read it. “It was… soap poisoning.”

I burped again, emitting three tiny bubbles into the room.

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