A man. Mustard. A mustard m- no, a man in a mustard pin-stripe shirt... the room smelled vaguely of mustard. Old, like the kind around the rim of a squeezebottle.
The man was nondescript, sitting in a room like Darth Vader's chamber in Star Wars... meditating? But the horrific thing... the horrific thing was that he sat on a pink mass. The pink mass was slick and soft and luminous with a meaty sheen all over its carpetlike surface...
Jenny's mind ejected itself from her astral form.
"Nope," she said definitively, reaching for the Tums in her purse. "Too close, even at that distance."
A light came on in his head, disrupting the symphony of flesh surrounding him. There was a smell like tiny cubed onions, frying.
In his shadow body, a thousand light years away, a fresh stream of drool issued from the side of his mouth, joining the layer of effluent caking his chin and neck. The edges of his jaws hurt in anticipation of the taste. The carpet rippled under him like it was alive.
Then he was away from the sealed chamber and back in the mass, moving toward the spot where the light had come from.
Then he was away from the sealed chamber and back in the mass, moving toward the spot where the light had come from.
