Soul on ice

Just as I figured, I opened the jar and the smell was God awful. It was like low tide itself had taken a dump. I gritted my teeth, held my breath and stuck my hand in. It had the feel of Jello mixed with broken glass. I wiggled my fingers around feeling for it, but came up with nothing. It felt as if the jello stuff was wriggling back against my hand. Despite the broken glass feel, I was not cut up, as far as I could tell. Realizing that my hand would have to be washed pretty thoroughly before I could breathe comfortably again, I pulled it out and resealed the jar. I was beginning to get nervous about him coming back early and finding me.

The jar had been my last good hope. I found a slop sink and rinsed off my fetid hand. No damage done it appeared. I still had two more days, but I had pretty much run out of ideas.

Goddamn it. Just where in Hell was Satan keeping my soul?

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