Dinner Bell

A pair of glassy, jaundiced eyes gleamed in the rearview mirror. The eyes that Mom had been so proud of were now just drab portholes looking out to a sea of nothingness. A tiny bead of sweat slicked down the side of Morty’s face like quick silver, but not from the desert heat or the hooker beside him; from the sight of his four-course meal.

“So…” he asked, getting interrupted by the pop of her Trident gum.

“Huh?” she said, taking her eyes off of her cellphone long enough to look him up and down, which didn’t take a lot of time. Morty is 3’ 9", large for people with his condition.

A lump formed in his throat, but not from the arousal; the transformation had begun.

“You wanna..?” He glanced (although it was more like a stare from a lazy eye; his coordination was leaving him.) at his pants and then at hers.

“Yeah, we prolly should.” She bent over to unzip her pumps, showing a muffintop and giving Morty all the initiative he needed.

I’m gonna eat you up!” he screamed, unhinging his decomposing jaw.

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