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Merlin’s Curse Part 7

March 24, 2013

The sage continues. Older instalments are here


6) Mrs Nub’s Prolapse

After the shenanigans of the afternoon, all seemed relatively sedate as they settled down for a night in front of the goggle-box. Mrs Nub still claimed that she felt unwell and even Flaps had to admit there was an unsettled edge to his gullet. However, with the feature wall off to one side and only occasionally visible in their peripheral vision, the pain of its presence had become somewhat muted.

Even the abomination his Lamington attempt had created had quieted after an hour’s worth of moustache stroking. It now lay snoring gently on the bench, only occasionally making swears under its breath. Flaps had decided that it’s existence would be a problem for another day. They’d already had far too much excitement for the moment.

‘Nice peaceful night on the couch, hey?’ he’d suggested to Mrs Nub who’d merely replied with a holler of, ‘WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO US?!’

It was halfway through the nightly Walrus bout that the trouble started.

The almighty screech that Mrs Nub unleashed was a little more difficult to fob off than her previous groaning. “Well don’t look at it if it’s hurting”, didn’t quite cut the mustard in the face of the raw pain present in her voice.

‘THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY ANUS!!!’ she shrieked, startling Flaps who’d been playing along with the fight, air slapping an imaginary foe with the custom, polystyrene flippers he’d styled after “Madman” Pollack’s, his favourite battler since childhood.

When his eyes darted to the mentioned vicinity it was clear that her claim was correct. As a rule Mrs Nub’s cling film tights left little to the imagination and today was no exception. As she scissored her legs to give Flaps a better view, it was obvious something was in the offing. Her rectum appeared to be hyperventilating. Her sphincter lay repeated, puckered kisses against its covering, sucking the thin plastic in and out.

‘What’s happening, Mrs Nub?!’ Flaps screeched. Determined not to be outdone by her panic, he began a bold dance he hoped would show his true depths of worry but stopped, saddened, after a particularly vigorous high kick shattered his makeshift flippers, reducing them from the bulky majesty of Pollack’s to the dainty tappers of the foppish Jimmy Hyperdoodle.

In lieu of an answer, a wet tearing filled the air and Flaps, sensing its emanation point, leant in close to investigate. Sadly, he didn’t even get past the third verse of his sleuthing shanty before the mystery was resolved. A knife-edged fart reduced Mrs Nub’s tights to tatters and a large gobbet, trailing a comet tail of blood, exploded out, nearly knocking Flaps off his feet as it splattered across his face.

‘What?’ Flaps barely got the disgusted word out before another squirt issued forth. This one was more drawn out – as though the first had been a dam holding back the flood. It hosed him down even as it rent Mrs Nub’s sphincter like wet cloth. In the space of mere moments, Flaps was smeared head to toe in blood and faeces and crawling all over with small, black ants. ‘Argh!’ he yelped, slapping them off him as they started to nip.

‘My ant farm!’ Mrs Nub cried pitifully before another convulsion overtook her and a third discharge burst forth.

‘Mrs Nub…’ Flaps’ exclamation fell short when he saw that the flow didn’t seem to be abating this time. Filth poured from Mrs Nub’s shredded anus. The blood had thickened now and resembled chunky strawberry conserve. Swirls of brown streaked it and the sheer unpleasantness was only added to by the cottage-cheese like discharge that glopped out periodically. Flaps was pretty sure the little flecks that dotted it were parts of Mrs Nub that should remain on the inside.

Although the sight was horrifyingly disgusting, Flaps found his curiousity piqued anew when he spotted something else peeking out at him from the churning sea of bloodied excrement. Something pink and shiny, streaked in brown… Mindful of the earlier dousing he’d received, Flaps edged forward so he could see.

There it is again! Flaps’ brow crinkled as he peered into the tattered sphincter that twitched like a rabbit’s nose in fast forward.

He flinched as Mrs Nub’s sphincter expelled a gout of foul smelling, yellowish pus and a blood-coated turd that looked more like a hunk of raw liver but his eyes were riveted on what the clearing of muck revealed. Mrs Nub did a banshee impression as, like a prarie dog checking if the coast is clear, a little pink bundle of flesh bobbed out from the tattered remains of her muscle.

It clearly liked what it saw. Moments later it flopped free and landed like a beached whale against the streaked inside of her thigh.

It was a nauseous sight. Almost on par with Merlin’s Curse, Flaps thought as he looked around for something to poke it back in with. Most of his usual implements were in for repair though (a consequence of the one man show Guess what’s in me jacksie! he’d put on for Mrs Nub and her unappreciative grandparents the week before). It was difficult to focus on locating new ones. Not only did he have to deal with the stinging ants as they regrouped for a second attack, but also the steady ooze of foul-smelling offal that leaked from Mrs Nubs rectum. It reminded Flaps of a volcano that had just blown its lava dome and was now settling down into a steady seep. The couch beneath Mrs Nub was sodden with blood and discharge and mounded with batter-like pools of shit.

Meanwhile the fleshy tube continued to worm from Mrs Nub.

To an observer who had just arrived on the scene, it would have appeared as though Mrs Nub was giving birth to Satan’s Child. Her brow was wet and her cheeks burned red as she panted and gasped, periodic spasms wracking her frame. Slowly, inch by inch, each punctuated with a wet fart and a mist-like spray, the flesh worked its way out. Flaps could only stand, open-mouthed in shock as it unfurled before his eyes, dripping a sludge trail as it wrapped around Mrs Nub’s thigh.

He couldn’t help it and felt slightly ashamed when he bent over and vomited, adding to the mess with his mealy stew.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Nub,’ he cried even though he secretly thought his vomit was the lesser of two evils. He thought it added a slightly nicer touch. Quaint was the word that sprang to mind (although he knew it was hopelessly inappropriate) but promptly disappeared as Mrs Nub unleashed a final screech that blew out her voice and left it a dusty croak.

The fleshy tube that had been slowly easing itself free suddenly shot out like the tentacle of an attacking octopus. The flood it unleashed as it whipped around rivalled a tsunami. Flaps heard the wet slap of the meaty tube connecting with his jaw and toppled, a last thought rocketing through his head before the pain kicked in and darkness claimed him.

This is worse than that lark where I spliced her with a triffid.


His skull throbbed when Flaps came back. The taste in his mouth was excessively unpleasant to say the least but, thankfully, the ants had apparently abandoned ship and were no longer tormenting him with their prickly bites.

Flaps cracked his eye and saw why. The ants were currently ringing one of Mrs Nub’s larger stools, worshipping it as their new god while it bobbed in a sea of blood and pus. If their jubilation was anything to go by, Flaps shuddered to think of the calibre of their old god. He watched their elaborate dance ritual for a moment, secretly jealous of the turd and fantasising about the day when an army of ants would see fit to construct a dance in his honour (and also wondering whether he could possibly sneak a little bit of the turd’s homage for his homage box which was still lying embarrassingly unfilled). Then, his heart filling with dread, Flaps turned his head toward Mrs Nub.

For a long time, he just screamed and screamed.

Next time:
The Bonobos

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