Left for dead in this swamp (or is it a slough?) Only crawfish for company. He underestimates me. I’ve been gutshot before. A cuckolded husband’s scorn (how did he know?) can be as blinding as a woman’s can be furious.
This far into the muck, the crawfish have been known to grow quite large. Big enough? Have to be. Deep breath, now start digging. Mud mingles with blood and bowels. Further and further downward. Hand feels carapace. Not quite big enough yet. Keep digging before he can turn around. Not big enough to wear, but big enough that I don’t want to get to know him too well.
My insides are more mud than man, what’s left of my lungs burn, and my eyes (why open? dark in here) roll back in my head. Need to find this big fucker quick.
…and whaddaya know there he is. Gotta work quick. Knife out. God, the carapace is hard. It takes all my strength just to dent it and now he knows exactly where I am. SNAP. A claw the size of a VCR misses my leg by inches. I stab again and through. With an upward motion I gut the bastard. SNAP. His death throes succeed where his conscious efforts failed as that one cleanly lops off my left hand. With what little strength I have left, I pry him open and let the carapace envelop me. Somehow, it doesn’t seem so dark and unwelcoming down here anymore…
UPWARD UPWARD POWERFUL TAIL AND MANY ARMS PUMP THIS IS STRENGTH OUR VENGENCE WILL BE SATISFYING AND SLOW HE WILL KNOW OUR STRENGTH WE BREAK THE SURFACE HARSH BURNING SUNLIGHT NOW SPECKLED WITH AN EXPLOSION OF WONDERFUL COOL MUD THE TIME FOR OUR VENGENCE WILL COME BUT FOR NOW SOMETHING COMPELS US NOT TO LEAVE THIS SWAMP THIS HOME MAYBE BACK UNDER THE MUD FOR JUST A LITTLE WHILE MAYBE A LONG WHILE THIS HOME…
Inspiration/atmosphere:
this is why I don't eat shrimp
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