Metastasis

On the morning of the fourth day, Joe Toadamundo awoke to find a large fleshy mass lying in bed with him. It was pink and stank of diesel oil. He shrank away from it, pulling covers around him.

“You’re hogging all the covers,” sighed his wife, behind him. “Besides, it’s Saturday, and we don’t have to get up yet.”

“There’s something in bed with us,” said Joe; “and it’s horrible.”

His wife opened one eye and peered at the thing. “That’s just the new corporate entity,” she said; “go back to sleep.”

“I can’t,” said Joe. “It’s ugly, it stinks, and it’s taking up most of my side of the bed.”

“I told you this would happen,” said his wife, and she rolled away from him, taking most of the blankets, and resumed her slumber.

(To be continued . . .)

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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