A Wife For Nico Vescari
All of them.
They’re this gross, shiny pink-gray color, coiled up on top of each other like a pile of wet sausages someone forgot in the sun. Some parts are fatter, some thinner, and they’re all slick—glistening, actually glistening—like they’ve got their own little layer of slime. Every time he breathes shallow, wheezy little breaths, the whole pile shifts. Just a tiny bit. One loop slides over another with this soft, wet squelch I can actually hear from here.
There’s blood, obviously, but not a fountain—more like it’s just seeping slowly, trickling down the curves of the guts and pooling in the folds.
Bab Populer