Warren gesticulated with colossal emphasis and screamed, "Over there!"
Maggie looked up from where she had been thrown. Cans of beans rolled off her stomach as she lifted herself to a seated position. Patrick was kneeling on the top crosswalk of the warehouse, and was presently being strangled by Edmund Butterphelps. Patrick's legs began to kick swiftly beneath him, so you would think he was running sideways if he had personal freedom at the moment. Edmund was whispering something in Patrick's ear. Patrick's hands flailed and flew at Edmund's face; scraping tearing, pulling hair, attempting a mutual strangulation, but to no avail.
Warren used his bungie sticky hand rope to launch himself to the highest platform, mere feet away from the horrific struggle. Edmund stood up to his full height and directed his attention away from Patrick and fully towards Warren.
"Begone, you misfit! You errant bean stalk!" Edmund bellowed, and without taking his eyes from Warren, he lifted Patrick to standing with his hands around his neck, employed his elbows at a merciless angle, and squeezed until Patrick's eyes burst forth from their sockets. They oozed off Edmund's chestplate and stuck to the floor.
Warren could not believe what he had seen. "I'll kill you!" he bellowed, and braced his stance to fling his body forward. Edmund's eyes softened. His lips curled up and stretched to a length just beyond that of his natural smile. He bent forward, almost double. Something strange seemed to be going on of inside him. He began to tremble; his whole body tossed itself into an eerie quaking. Edmund then looked up, still shaking, curled back his lips above and below his teeth, and began to laugh. It started slowly, more air than noise, but it built dramatically in a fraction of a second. It built hysterically, maniacally, enormously. Edmund reeled back and began to spasm on the floor, kicking his legs and thrusting his arms. He rolled right towards the end of the plank where he'd dropped Patrick, looked briefly into the holes that once held blue eyes, and laughed all the more. "Oh, hello," he managed to mumble between fits and outbursts. He sent himself rolling the opposite direction, towards the other end of the platform where there was no barrier, and dropped straight off it. Four stories down he fell. Warren raced to watch him, but he lost sight of him among the warehouse trees and shrubbery below.
Maggie finally ascended all stairways which led to the top and reached Warren. She first saw Patrick and gasped. Warren backed her away from the corpse and tried to distract her, "I saw him fall, he's got to be on the floor, let's go." Bracing her against his side, he again employed his sticky hand rope to perform the reverse function of how it had been used before. They were quickly on the ground. But there was no Edmund. All they found was an enormous molar with specks of blood on its end.
Warren dreamed that night. Standing in the shape of a diamond were four humans. One he figured to be himself, though he wasn’t sure, another was Maggie, a third was Patrick, and the fourth was Edmund Butterphelps. The one Warren would later claim to be himself, as he retold the dream, was waving his hands in the air. He could have been directing an aircraft to land or washing windows with unnecessary enthusiasm. He knew not the reason, only saw the details. Not only were his actions odd, the direction in which they were unleashed was odd. He was not facing the group in the diamond shape, but he was turned the other way. Next came details on Patrick and Edmund Butterphelps. Patrick was giggling and slapping at Edmund’s chest while Edmund supported Patrick and was poking at his chest. He would poke, gauge Patrick’s reaction, which was always some degree between chuckling and hysteria, and move his finger along to probe some other section. Each section that was poked was poked deeper than the last. The deepness of the poke, however, did not correspond to the heartiness of the laughter. Edmund Butterphelps seemed a bit confused by this, but he was making merry with the situation regardless. After six or seven more pokes, he gave up. He scratched his head, shifted his stance and studied Patrick. Patrick was in no mood to allow the poking to cease. He played his fingers in the motion that indicates, “come on!” should one be inviting another to prod at their torso. Edmund then came very close to Patrick. Patrick expected tickling so greatly that he clenched his teeth, his eyes, squatted a little a waited. Edmund jerked his finger backwards and toward the sky and opened his mouth. He was about to say something when he noticed that his finger hand been caught. Spinning to see what had halted its progress, he saw that it had become lodged in Maggie’s nose. He had forgotten that she was standing there. Patrick couldn’t help but sneak a peek to determine the reason for why he was not presently receiving stimulation and attention. He exhaled a bit impatiently, which caused Edmund to spin his head towards him, jerk his finger, with Maggie still attached, through Patrick’s body, and into Warren’s who was standing to his side. Edmund stuffed and stuffed Maggie into Warren. Her right foot was the last to be absorbed. Warren was shocked, and even moreso as he noticed a pleasant, full sensation throughout his entire body. “Warren, are you there?” Maggie’s voice seemed to come from inside Warren as his own usually did. He answered with a thought. “Yes. Where are you?”
“I’m inside you. It’s surprisingly comfortable in here. What’s Patrick doing?”
Warren turned and again became aware of Edmund and Patrick. Edmund had stuck his finger in Patrick’s left eyeball and was twirling it around, causing Patrick to kick out with an intense, hyperactive and expressive dance. They both seemed to love it. Edmund stopped when he saw Warren was looking. He held up his left finger. “I’ve got another one,” he said. “Care to take a ride?”
“No, thank you,” Warren said. Suddenly he felt ill. He rushed to the corner of the room and began to vomit bits of Maggie’s guts out. He tasted bacon and eggs and pancakes. He remembered having none of the above. “Oh, but those were so good,” Maggie complained, bemoaning the loss of a delicious meal.
“Sorry,” Warren replied. “I can’t quite help their exodus from your body. Or my body. Both our bodies. Why is this so comfortable?”
“I don’t know. I’m enjoying it as well. You mind if I nap a bit in here? Get me out later sometime.”
“Those were some fantastic tasting eggs. I feel like you still have some in you, so that’s good. I’m set. Sure, I’ll wake you up ‘round five, that sound good?”
“Perfect.”
For the next few weeks, Warren was constantly amused as he felt Maggie swishing around inside of himself while he walked or tossed and turned in his sleep. Maggie had a way of always making her presence known. She would comment on his daily choices. The toast was not crunchy enough. He slept on his stomach too much. She loved the bumping and gliding sensation she felt when he went jogging. She didn’t like it when he took too long in the shower. She had not felt a shower in weeks, only felt the secondary warmth as it passed through Warren, and longed to feel the moisture on her own skin again. Their minds seemed to merge. No longer was there back and forth decision making.
It was another week or so before Warren felt pressure against the walls of his abdomen. He knew that a bump was forming, and so he set about preparing himself to become Maggie’s father. Oh, how he loved to sing to her.
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