This chapter illustrated my worst nightmare: being stuck in an office while a putrid blob guffaws at my shortcomings.
The following images are related to chapter 87 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.
I have posted many other entries with generated images. Check them out.
“Shut your slimy, stinking piehole.”
“Please return to that hellish dimension from whence you came.”
“You’re an interdimensional scab on a diseased surface.”
“The gooey mass squirms, stretching and contracting, as it emits a guttural retching noise, like that of a vacuum cleaner clogged with swallowed hairs and chunks of food waste.” What the hell is going on in that last picture?
“My mind slows time down, turning the projectile into a shimmering blur that expands as it approaches its target.”
“I picture a woman who, distracted texting, understood she was crossing the train tracks just as a freight train was bearing down on her, about to whomp the ghost out of her body.” That last woman was already a ghost before she died.
“The glob of gunk splatters on my right cheek with a thwack, as if I have been smacked across the face by a cold, wet hand.”
“A pungent fume, that must have trailed behind the gooey comet like a tail, penetrates my nostrils with the stench of acidic regurgitation mixed with that of rotten eggs boiled in dirty diapers.”
“In a second my skin will sizzle and bubble, burning with a caustic fire that will sear my nerves.”
“I will feel the right half of my face withering and ripping apart as it gets vaporized into carbon dioxide.”
“The acid will eat into my tongue and right eye, will melt flesh and turn bone to mush until it reaches my brain.”
“How long will it take for my mind to dissolve into chaos?”
“My right cheek tingles with numbness as if I had been slapped hard.”
“A chill has spread throughout my body, my skin is crawling, and waves of nauseous revulsion are breaking on the shore of my soul.”
“The gooey mass must be swarming with germs and parasites, but other than that, it feels like I’ve been sneezed on by a bronchitic clown.”
“I blink frantically; it stings as if I had squirted lemon juice into my right eye.”
“The filthy slimeball is jiggling like jello, emitting wet squelches, wobbling his eyeballs, and dripping pints of putrid muck onto the carpet.”
“If only my mind could shrink to the size of an insect and take wing to escape the blob’s cretinous cackles.”
“Scream for your mommy.”
“The blob laughs like a broken-down garbage truck with bad brakes.”
“I have turned back into a teenager, and the imagined version of my mother is scolding me, looking down her nose, shaking her head, because I never loved the color pink, or baby-oil soap.”
“A fire-red fog, the hot breath of primal rage, is spreading through my frontal cortex.”
“Although I’m breathing through my mouth to reduce the sting in my nasal cavity, I’m tasting decay like rotting lettuce soaked in sweat.”
“Outside, the thunderstorm thunders on: a cosmic war with rain as bullets.”
“That abyssal lord of pestilence.”
“I want to claw the sludge off with my fingernails before it dries and hardens into a crusty mask, but the prospect of soiling more of my skin with that goop makes me shudder.”
“I grab another tissue and I scrub the tacky half of my face to wipe all traces of that monster off.”
“Likely I still stink like a septic tank, but at least I don’t look like a slime-drenched sloth who has dunked her head in a bucket of rancid lube.”
“Having your face covered in goo suited you better.”
“Spike’s revolver, a relic of a bygone era when most households kept one on top of the TV as a phallic totem to ward off demons.” Those are some badass revolvers.
“The meticulous curves of that gleaming, silvery hunk of metal call out to me.”
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
Pingback: We’re Fucked, Pt. 87 (Fiction) – The Domains of the Emperor Owl