Vomit
The dogs want to eat my rotting remains. If only I could stave off their savage advance.
As I rest in my hotel room my paranoia is drowned out by the overwhelming urge to kill the fat, sloppy, truck driver who has long since passed out in my bathroom. The one factor that has proffered him a stay of execution is the stench of vomit and intestinal bile that soak the bathroom walls. If I slipped and fell in there I would surely become violently ill. And that just would not do.
No tonight this truck driver will not die. Rather he will meet another, far worse fate. Repeated, violent, unlubricated relations with a one Emery Emery.
