Meat Pudding

© 2004 Jeff Appleton
All rights reserved.

"How can you have any pudding, if you don't eat your meat?"
? Pink Floyd

My God, Jack thought. Won't she shut up for even five seconds?

The incessant drone of his wife's voice drifted out of the door and washed over him. Placing both hands in the small of his back, he straightened up from where he had been working, enjoying the sounds of vertebrae popping.

"What was that, baby?" he called. "I couldn't hear you. I'm working on the hot tub out here." He heard her voice again but still couldn't make out the words. He debated just ignoring her and waiting until she decided to come outside but knew there'd be hell to pay if he did that.

Shaking his head, he made his way out from behind the hot tub and walked through the back door of the mobile home. Shirl was in the kitchen, working on her latest cross-stitch masterpiece. The current project depicted a cozy little cottage with a white picket fence and smoke curling up out of the chimney. In bold, cursive writing, Home Sweet Home curved across the top.

"Was you callin' me, baby?" Jack asked. "I couldn't hear you. I was all bent over working on the hot tub out there."

Shirl continued to stare intently at the cross-stitch piece in front of her. Just as Jack was beginning to wonder if she'd even acknowledge his presence, she glanced up. "Oh, there you are," she snapped. "Didn't you hear me callin' you?"

Jack hesitated, trying to gauge the look on her face and decide what the best answer would be. Lately it seemed that no matter what he said, it turned out wrong. He couldn't begin to count the number of fights they'd had in the last month. He could tell from the look on her face that she was ready for another one.

Not this time, by God, not this fucking time, Jack told himself. Jack considered himself to be pretty much an easy-going kind of guy, but enough was enough. He didn't have a whole lot of people he could confide in, especially about his relationship with his wife, but he had mentioned it a time or two over beers with Doc Gibbs. He and Doc had been friends for years, and just three days earlier Doc had stitched Jack's big toe back on when he had damn near cut it off with the lawn mower.

"Ya just got to show 'em who's boss," the grizzled old doctor had said one night. Jack had steered the conversation around to nagging wives and Doc was more than happy to dispense his wisdom on the subject. "You gotta let em know right off the bat that you won't take no shit. Do like I did," he said with a drunken laugh. "I looked my last wife straight in eye and told her, 'It's my way, or the Highway.' I would tell ya to just kick her in the ass, but that might not be such a great idea right now."

Doc had wandered off to the other end of the bar, laughing heartily, leaving Jack to ponder his words of wisdom. In Jack's beer-induced buzz the advice had sounded pretty good.

He looked at Shirl, and as the words came out of his mouth, he was distinctly aware of two separate but equally intense emotions. The first was shock that he was actually saying something like this, but the other was almost a sense of pride. Pride because he had finally shown her that he wouldn't take no shit.

"Goddamn, you stupid bitch," he said, trying to muster as much I ain't gonna take no shit attitude as possible. "Don't you realize that I'm workin' out there? Couldn't you get off of your fat ass and come outside to talk to me?" Some small part of Jack was screaming out a warning, telling him that maybe he'd gone just a little too far with the 'fat ass' remark.

Shirl continued to stare at the cross stitch and the puzzled look that came across her face would have made Jack laugh if he hadn't been feeling so angry.

She turned toward him, and Jack knew from the look on her face that she was ready to open up a whole can of ass-chewing.

"What was that you just said?" she asked. "What exactly did you just say to me? I must not have heard you, cause I'm sure you didn't say what I think you just said." She was staring at Jack now, the challenge obvious in her face.

Jack looked at her and tried to brace himself. He thought he'd planned out exactly what he wanted to say. Now that the moment was here, his mouth was cottonball dry and his throat felt paralyzed.

He'd known this moment was coming, known it longer than just the last few weeks. He'd actually know for the last year that she'd been getting more and more unhappy with their marriage. More specifically, that she'd been getting more unhappy with him and anything that he did.

Before his brain was able to think about it, his mouth had opened and he heard "Awww, baby, I'm sorry," starting to tumble from his lips. Maybe he really meant it, or maybe it was just habit, but before the second syllable started to form on his lips, Shirl picked up the heavy cross-stitch frame and flung it at him.

It struck him on the bridge of the nose and bounced off, landing in a skillet full of congealing milk gravy that had been sitting on the stove since yesterday's breakfast. Jack watched as grease began to soak through and blot out Home Sweet Home. A bright red spot appeared on the bottom and Jack stupidly wondered how milk gravy could turn cross stitch red before he realized his nose was spraying blood, turning both the gravy and the cross stitch a bright shade of crimson.

He looked up, sure that Shirl would be coming to help. Hands pressed to his nose, he watched in disbelief as she picked up the green glass ashtray that was overflowing with butts and cocked it behind her head. Jack had the absurd idea that she looked just like Terry Bradshaw winding up to throw the bomb to Lynn Swann. She'd be really pissed if she knew I was thinking she looked like Bradshaw, he thought. He was lost in this vision when the ashtray struck the wall nest to his head and exploded in a shower of splinters. He stumbled back into the doorway, muffled apologies flowing from beneath the hands that were still pressed over his injured nose.

"Get out!" Shirl screamed, and Jack could hear the edge in her voice. Somehow this hadn't worked out how he had planned. He was baffled by the sudden and unexpected attack.

Shirl was coming at him and, as he turned to make a retreat, she picked up the skillet and drew it back with both hands. It flew through the doorway and caught him in the small of the back. He pitched forward, bloody hands flying from his face in an attempt to hold himself up off of the ground.

His face slammed down and he snuffled dirt and dust up his bloody nose. He could feel the sticky mess of blood grabbing at the dirt and holding on to it. He rolled over onto his back, trying to brace himself for another attack. Instead, he was rewarded with the sight of Shirl slamming the door with one last cry of "Fucking bastard!" to make her point.

Jack lay in the dirt and gravy for a moment and tried to piece together all that had just happened. Just five minutes ago he had been finishing up the hot tub repairs and was looking forward to a cold beer or three, and an afternoon of soaking away his troubles in the hot, bubbling water. Instead, he now found himself laying in the dirt, nose bleeding and quite possibly broken, back bruised and battered, ego shot down in flames, and to top it all off, he felt like he had milk gravy running down the crack of his ass.

He pushed himself up to a setting position and shook his head. What the hell just happened here? he thought, and tried to stand up. It took him a second, but he was finally able to push himself to his feet and turn toward the back door. He stopped, reconsidered, and headed toward his tool shed and the mini fridge full of cold beer.

Jack sat in the shade of the tool shed and watched the rusted-out Pinto station wagon kicking up dust as it bounced its way down the rutted dirt road that led away from the mobile home. It turned right onto State Route One, tires squealing in a way that brought back memories of Shirl's voice, and roared out of sight.

He sighed deeply and took another long draw from the beercan. He drained it and tossed it towards the pile that had been growing in the corner of the tool shed. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, he thought, and laughed wildly. He fished the last can out of the mini fridge and realized he'd killed a twelve-pack in less than an hour. At this rate he'd have to make a run to the Liquor Barn before lunch even rolled around.

He'd sat and watched as Shirl had hauled her suitcases out to the car. Drank beer and watched as she'd thrown what looked to be all of his clothes into the front yard. He'd been tempted to go down and stop her when the lighter fluid and matches had come out, but by then he'd been nearly through with the twelve-pack and it just seemed like more effort than it was worth.

Shirl had used the lighter fluid to hose down the pile of clothes and Jack watched as she'd had to scratch three matches to life before the lighter fluid had caught. What was really amazing, Jack had thought, was how fast a pile of clothes could catch fire and burn down to nothingness.

He'd heard about an widow over in Louisville who'd set her drunken husband's clothes on fire too. The only difference was that the husband had been in them.

Long after the Pinto had faded from sight, Jack stood and pulled open the bottom drawer of his tool chest. Out came a bottle of golden, amber liquid, and Jack cracked it open. He waved it underneath his nose like an expensive glass of wine and sniffed loudly. He brought it to his lips and pulled hard on the bottle. The 100-proof Cuervo burned a path of destruction on the way down and Jack had to fight the urge to gag.

He grabbed the pack of Rolaids he kept next to the Cuervo and hurriedly chewed several, grimacing as he swallowed the chalky-tasting medicine. He really wasn't much on drinking the hard stuff, but he kept the bottle hidden in his toolbox for occasions just like this.

The effects of the tequila, amplified by the twelve-pack of beer, quickly slammed home. Jack staggered his way down to the hot tub and set the bottle down as he sized up the digital display. 104 degrees, he thought. At least this bitch won't clobber me with a frying pan.

He struggled with the cover and barked his shins on the homemade redwood steps. Grimacing in pain, he shoved the cover hard and it somersaulted backward, collapsing in the dirt with a dull thud.

Jack bent over and rubbed his shins. Rising, he picked up the bottle of tequila and brought it to his lips. Funny, he thought, as he took another long drink from the bottle. That don't seem to burn at all. Nowhere near like that first sip.

He bent over to strip down to his jockeys and the hot tub seemed to slide away from him. He toppled forward and brought his hands up just in time to prevent his nose from suffering another indignation.

Jack looked down at the redwood steps and had the distinct impression that they were moving upward, like some kind of crazy homemade escalator. Closing one eye, he carefully raised his leg and attempted to put his foot on the first step. The world seemed to spin and he pitched forward, his momentum carrying him upward onto the lowermost step. He stood there for a moment, not sure if he was going to remain upright or not.

Moving with slow deliberation, he raised his foot again and lifted himself onto the second step. More quickly now, not wanting to lose his momentum, he stepped up and stood on the edge of the hot tub, his arms spread wide to maintain his balance. To anybody watching, he would have made a great impression of a Flying Walenda.

He was just preparing to step down into the steaming water when his balance shifted and his arms began to pinwheel. They each made two crazy revolutions and his feet seemed to be possessed with a life of their own. They both shot out from underneath him and for a brief second he was levitating. He catapulted into the air, his body twisting and squirming before it crashed down onto the hard fiberglass edge of the hot tub.

Jack felt, more than heard, a sound like a very large, very crisp carrot being broken in two. His legs and ass splashed down into the water as his back and arms splayed out and backwards over the edge. Damn, that's gonna leave a bruise, was his last thought before the blackness settled in and he passed out.

Jack watched the girl in the string bikini spike the volleyball over the net. The pounding sun was causing him to sweat, and he felt a trickle run down his forehead and start to make its way through his hair. He thought that he really should wipe it off, but he was feeling so damn lazy and it was so damn hot that he just didn't want to move.

It was cascading off his head now, pouring down his face and puddling in his ear. He looked at Bikini Girl and saw that she was pointing at him and laughing.

The sweat continued to stream down his head and he turned his eyes away from Bikini Girl. It took a moment for them to focus, but he finally realized he was looking at a set of dog balls. The goddamn dog had its leg hiked and was pissing on his head.

Jack tried to jerk his head away, but something was wrong. His head wouldn't move. My goddamn head won't move, he thought stupidly as he continued to watch the dog balls shake with the strain of pushing the piss out.

Some small part of him wondered exactly how much piss a dog's bladder could hold, but he realized that wasn't the really important question right now. The really important question was WHY COULDN'T HE MOVE HIS GODDAMN HEAD?

I'm laying here while a goddamn dog pisses on my head and I CAN'T FUCKING MOVE! Bikini Girl was laughing hysterically now. Jack could hear her over the sound of dog piss splashing off his face. With a cold detachment he realized the stream of piss was moving toward his mouth. He strained with all his might to turn his head and....

...Came to in the hot tub. The dream clung to him and he could still hear Bikini Girl laughing in the background. He tried to shake his head and clear it from the effects of the dream. Nothing. He couldn't move a damn thing. Just like in the dream, but this time he was damn sure he was wide awake.

He could feel the water at about chin level and thought he was lucky he hadn't landed face down; he probably would have snorted enough water to croak. Jack decided that in just a second or two the feeling would return to his arms and legs and he'd be able to pull himself up and out of the hot tub.

A small voice was clamoring for attention in the back of his head. What if the feeling doesn't come back? What then, Jacky ol' boy?

Don't be fucking stupid, he told himself. We'll be moving in just a second or two. He tried to turn and found that the only thing he could move was his eyes. His face was pressed into the side of the hot tub, and the perspective was all wrong, but if he strained he could make his eyes adjust and the digital control panel for the heater and pump finally swan into focus.

106 fuckin' degrees, he thought. Damn, the piece of shit is still on the blink. One of the things Jack had been replacing that morning had been the high temp limit switch, which was supposed to turn the heater off if the temperature exceeded 105 degrees. Hot-tubbing in temperatures above that mark could have serious side effects, not the least being heat stroke and heart failure.

Jack rolled his eyes back the other way and could just make out his right arm stretched behind him and disappearing over the edge of the hot tub at a gruesome angle. Damn, didn't know my arm could bend like that, he thought. The fucking thing must be dislocated.

Keep it cool, man, just keep it cool, he said to himself. Just give it a second; you'll have your mitts back in just a sec. Something flickered at the edge of his vision and he forced his eyes back to the control panel. The digital readout read 107 degrees and a small asterisk next to the numbers had began to flash.

Jack felt a sigh of relief escape when he saw the asterisk. It was the indicator that the control pack had sensed something was wrong and was shutting the system down. At least I won't turn into Dinty Moore beef stew in here, Jack thought. What was going on with his arms and legs was a big enough problem without having to worry about if he was going to cook to death in his own hot tub.

With a surge of compressed air the blower kicked on and Jack found his face being splashed as bubbling water foamed and jumped around his mouth. What the hell? he thought. The goddamn thing is supposed to be in overload. Jack forced his eyes back to the readout and saw the timer had automatically started the daily filtration mode. Jets for twenty minutes and then high speed pumping for an hour to run as much water through the filter as possible.

The asterisk was still flashing next to 107 and Jack watched the 107 flash to 108. He could feel the scream starting somewhere down in his guts and realized he didn't even want to hold it back. It raced up his throat and tried to explode out his mouth. He heard a soft mewling noise that reminded him of the time he'd ran over Shirl's cat. He had pulled into the driveway and not even known he'd squished the damn thing until he'd killed the car and gotten out. The cat had been trapped under the tire. Jack thought it would have been screeching like a monkey with its nuts in a vice. Instead, it had just looked at him and meowed, a soft mewling meow that was just like what was slurring from his lips right now.

He felt his heartbeat increase to a trot, then a sprint, then a fullbore linear panic. It triphammered inside his chest, making him wonder if it might not explode right out of his ribcage.

He tried to draw a breath in for another attempt at screaming but only managed to suck in a throat full of foam as the hot tub bubbled its way through the cleaning cycle.

He coughed, choked, gagged a breath, and felt the beginning stages of hyperventilation. He tried to slow his breathing cycle down, but his lungs seemed like the only damn thing on his body that were working right and he was hesitant to tell them to stop when they were doing such a great job.

As his lungs became supercharged with air, Jack felt his mind drifting. He could feel himself fading out and fought to stay awake, but as the waves of blackness engulfed him, a part of him welcomed it, and embraced it.

Twenty minutes later the blower ended its timed cycle and the pump kicked in for the daily filtering session. Jack's eyes snapped open as the blower shut down, and for a feverish thirty seconds he was sure his mouth was going to slide beneath the water. He felt panic rising ins his throat and struggled for some type of response from his arms or legs. Nothing, not even a tingling to let him know they were still there.

Water was surging out of the hot tub jets and even though Jack could not feel it swirling against his legs, he could sense his body swaying in the powerful current. He strained his eyes to glance back at his arm and saw his body shift ever so slightly. His dislocated arm was losing its grip as it hung over the edge of the hot tub and his mouth dropped a fraction of an inch closer to the water.

With a surge of adrenalin, Jack forced his mouth open and felt his chin strike the hard edge of the hot tub. Part of him wanted to scream in relief because he could at least still open his mouth, but the instant he opened it, a rush of chlorinated water ran into his mouth and down his throat. His gag reflex kicked in and as his mouth flexed open and closed, Jack felt his chin pressing harder against the edge of the hot tub, lifting his head just a fraction of an inch out of the water.

He pressed harder and felt his head lift perhaps a half an inch. Suddenly, the tears were flowing. Hot, salty tears of relief, and anger, and remorse, ran down his face.

Jack glance up at the afternoon sky through eyes that were blurred with tears and guessed that it was somewhere around 2 o'clock. His head was finally clearing as the last of Cuervo wore off. He was pretty sure he'd done something major to his back, but he didn't want to think about what type of permanent damage might have been done. Right now it seemed more important to find a way out of the mess he was in.

He was pretty sure he couldn't count on Shirl coming back anytime soon. She'd spent weekends away from the trailer several times over the past few months, and that had been because of fights a lot smaller than the one they'd had today.

Jack's eyes narrowed and he frowned as he thought back over the events of the morning and the battering that Shirl had inflicted on him. Ya know ol' boy, it really is her fault that you're in this mess, the voice inside his head told him. If you'd been a man and stood up to her you could be inside right now, kicking it in your recliner with a six-pack in the fridge and NASCAR on the tube.

Jack knew that wasn't entirely correct. Even if the fight had not happened, it was highly unlikely that Shirl would have allowed any beer drinking or NASCAR watching. That bitch would have been sweatin' my ass to mow the lawn, or weed the flowerbed, or wash the car, or...or...or....

Jack knew it wasn't a good time to get pessimistic. He really needed to concentrate on how to get out of this mess. He strained for several minutes to get some type of movement out of his arms, then his legs. With no success he tried to wiggle his fingers, but with his left arm floating, and his right arm bent back over the edge of the hot tub, even if he had been successful he wouldn't have known it.

Next he concentrated on moving his toes. The swirling current caused his right leg to float up and he could see the toes of his foot just a few inches under the water. He could see the stitches on his big toe and wondered if the all the time it had been in the water was going to be a problem.

He'd pretty near cut the damn thing off with the lawn mower after Shirl had bitched enough about him getting out and mowing down the weeds behind the tool shed. The thing had been held on by just a few pieces of ligament and some snatches of skin, but Doc Gibbs had been able to stitch the thing back on. He'd told Jack it might take up to two months for the bones to knit back together.

He concentrated and strained, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move anything other than his lower jaw and chin. No arms, no hands, no legs, no toes, no nothing.

Three hours later the sun was sliding down out of the sky and Jack was again staring at the digital console. 110 fucking degrees. Oh man, oh man oh man oh man. Jack knew he was in deep trouble now. The heat from the hot tub was causing him to sweat and he could feel his body screaming for something cold to drink. To top it off, he'd skipped breakfast to get an early start on the hot tub and now his stomach was alive and growling.

At least the damn sun's down, he thought. No more sitting here with my face getting cooked. He heard a high-pitched whine in his ear, and something flashed across his field of vision. Another whine joined the first, and while Jack was trying to place where he'd heard that sound before, something landed on the tip of his nose. He strained his eyes to focus on the thing and his blurry vision could just barely make out a mosquito as it plunged its proboscis into his skin.

Inwardly he groaned. Shirl had been griping at him for weeks to either buy a bug zapper or to fix the screens on the trailer. The skeeters had been so bad that she'd refused to go out at night. In truth, Jack didn't really blame her. This year the skeeters had been exceptionally bad, and here he was trapped outside as the sun went down.

Jack wiggled his jaw and tried to blow upward at his nose. The damn thing was still there, and now Jack could hear more whines as reinforcements showed up. Pretty soon his head would be covered with the damn things. Oh God, he thought. Please let Shirl come back. Please let anybody come. He frantically wracked his brain, trying to think if there was anybody who might be coming to the trailer that weekend. His face and ears were now alive with mosquitoes and Jack could feel the tiny stings as each one began drinking its dinner.

Somewhere around 7:30 he blacked out again. He tried to force his eyes to stay open, but when he did the mosquitoes just landed on his eyeballs and started eating there. Thank God I can at least close my eyelids, he thought. The combination of weariness and shock overcame him and he drifted away into the blackness as the mosquitoes continued with their feast.

Jack swam up from the blackness when the blowers kicked on. His mouth had slipped down again and he frantically sought a grip with his chin, trying to push his face up out of the bubbling water.

The vision that flashed in his head was of the Pinto bouncing and banging its way down the dirt road. She probably went to spend the weekend at Mommy's. Run to mommy you bitch, run to Mommy and leave me here to drown, or cook, or die. Jack tried to block out the voice that was recounting all of the previous months worth of arguing with Shirl, all the times she'd slapped him, or scratched him, or sent an ashtray sailing toward his head. He was sure she loved him, was absolutely positive about it. All she needed was a little space to clear her head.

Jack realized with relief that the mosquitoes were gone. Whether it was the chlorine vapors from the bubbling water or the rays of the morning sun, he wasn't sure. The important thing was that the damn little bloodsuckers were, at least for the moment, gone.

He tried to swallow and felt his throat catch. He had a major case of cottonmouth and knew he'd be in big trouble if he didn't get something to drink soon. To top it off, he felt the first cramp from his stomach. It'd been over twenty-four hours since he'd had anything to eat, and he knew that his stomach wouldn't go for that.

Since the troubles with Shirl had gotten serious he'd been eating Tums and Rolaids on a regular basis. He'd learned from experience that if he went too long between meals his stomach would cramp to the point where he'd be doubled over and could hardly move. One more nice little souvenir that bitch left, he heard the voice in his head say. But then again, if ya stay married it'll only last another 30 or 40 years.

Jack closed his eyes and tried to shut the voice out. When he opened them again he saw the readout flashing 111 degrees. The night before had been cold and Jack realized that the controller must be totally shot.

He was momentarily distracted from thoughts of hunger and temperature as the bubbling water brought his leg to the surface. He strained to focus his eyes, unsure of what it was he'd glimpsed.

For just a second it had looked as if the foot that came bubbling up only had four toes. Heatstroke he thought. I'm suffering from heatstroke and my eyes are seeing things. The bubbling water brought his leg to the surface again and this time there was no mistaking what he saw. Four toes and the water-wrinkled white stub of a fifth. Sometime during the night the toe that Doc Gibbs had stitched back on and made a break for freedom and was now cruising around the hot tub like the S.S. Minnow on a three-hour tour.

Maybe the damn thing'll get bound up in the pump and shut the whole system down, Jack thought. The digital readout flickered, catching his attention. Jacks heart accelerated as he watched the readout jump from 111 to 112.

His throat seemed drier now, and Jack thought that maybe it was just a reaction to the idea of being in pot of boiling water. He was sure if he'd didn't get something to drink soon, his throat would swell up to the point of cutting off his airway.

Grimacing inside, he flexed his jaw muscles and pushed his mouth open. Hot, chlorinated water rushed down his throat. He swallowed instinctively and then rolled his eyes toward the corner of the hot tub. Caught up in the swirl of the jets, a pair of items bobbed on the surface. He forced his eyes into focus and with a dawning horror made out his toe, stitches still attached and waving in the current like tiny strands of seaweed, and a turd the size of a large zucchini.

The water he had just swallowed blasted back up his esophagus and in a flash was spraying out of his mouth and nose. Jack felt his mouth slipping farther below the water and with each convulsion he tried frantically to push his head back above the water level.

After a panic-filled thirty seconds he was finally able to get a firm grip and lifted his mouth clear of the water. Dry heaves wracked his body and bright, yellowish tendrils of bile snaked out through the water.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm the voice that was now screaming in his head. It is her fault! It really is her fault! If she hadn't left you wouldn't be in this spot right now! It's her fault! Jack knew his brain was not working right. Shirl loved him, and he knew whatever kind of mess he was in right now, it had nothing to do with her.

The battle inside his head raged as the afternoon wore on. By noontime of the second day he was faint with hunger and the realization began to dawn on him that he just might not make it through another night.

He tried to take another sip of water around nine o'clock, but the sight of the bobbing toe and the fecal smell of the turd had caused his jaws to lock up. No matter how hard he tried, he hadn't been able to force himself to drink.

He wasn't exactly sure how the turd had wound up in the water, but it was evident he'd probably pushed it out himself. More than likely it had made its appearance when he'd been passed out. He thought the damn thing would've dissolved by now, and while it had grown somewhat smaller, there was still plenty of it left. It seemed content to bob alongside the remainder of his toe.

The cramps started to get serious around four that afternoon. If he'd been able to move he was sure he'd have been doubled over in pain. The waves of agony washed over him, clouding his mind and exposing every nerve in his body. He could feel every shot of acid as it was pumped into his growling stomach.

With the next cycling of the blower, Jack watched as the turd and toe began to orbit the hot tub, caught up in the current of the jets. As the toe circled past on its first orbit, Jack saw that the hairs had started to regrow from where Doc Gibbs had shaved them off.

The toe sailed past him and his nose picked up just the faintest hint of an aroma and the picture of a Hometown Buffet pot roast filled his head. He felt the saliva squirting into his mouth and the cramping in his stomach doubled in intensity. His eyes rolled back with pain and Jack was again surprised to hear the low, mewling noise.

As the toe circled for a second time Jack had a vision of being discovered, dead of starvation. If he'd only had a bite to eat, the paramedic was saying.

Jack opened his eyes and calculated the route of the toe. If he timed it just right ... he opened his mouth and pushed it down as far as it would go. Water rushed in just as the toe was passing in front of his face. The current pulled his toe in and Jack clamped down on it just as the retching began again. This time not even strings of bile were present, just dry heaving for what seemed like hours. All the time he held the toe between his teeth, clamping down in it like it was the finest Cuban cigar to ever make it past the blockade.

After the retching had subsided, Jack used his tongue to push the toe toward the back of his mouth. He felt it lodge between his molars and bit down. Hot juices rushed down his throat and the chlorinated taste of old socks bloomed across his tastebuds. I will not puke, I will not puke, he said over and over as he gnawed the meat off the bone. He could hear the sounds of the bone and gristle popping between his teeth as the chunks of meat tore off.

His throat wanted to refuse, but Jack forced himself to swallow the bite-sized morsels. The toe bone was now meat-free in his mouth and he bit down hard on it, grinding it into splinters and flakes. It's just protein, just protein, he told himself.

As Jack was chewing the last of the bone, he heard the first whine of the night and tried to brace himself for the wave of bloodsuckers. Thinking of the dinner he'd just eaten, and faced with the prospect of another night trapped in the tub, Jack again felt hot tears bubble out of his eyes and run down his cheeks

As the night wore on, Jack drifted in and out of consciousness. He watched the temperature continue to climb and the small part of his brain that was still rational knew that even if he did make it out alive, he'd probably be no more than a vegetable. With Shirl gone, who would take care of him now? Remorse washed over him and tears again streaked his face until there were no more to shed. He knew this was due to dehydration and tried to force down another mouthful of water, but it sprayed back up at the first thought of hot-tub turd.

The morning sun broke over the roof of the trailer and Jack found himself trying to suck in another toe. He missed it on the first try and was judging the path, trying to get the timing right, when Doc Gibbs only worked on one toe, the voice inside his head told him. Heatstroke, hunger, dehydration, and shock were in full effect, and it took his brain almost five full minutes to process the information. All the while, he hungrily watched the toe making its circular passage around the hot tub.

As the toe passed close to him, in a brief moment of lucidity, Jack realized it wasn't a toe he'd been trying to suck into his mouth. It was the zucchini-sized hot-tub turd that had dissolved down to the size of his big toe.

A vision of Shirl laughing at him as he ate the turd flashed through his head. That's just like something that bitch would do, he thought. Laugh at me while I eat shit to survive.

The turd passed in front of his mouth, close enough for him to smell the stench. The vision of Shirl laughing was more real now and he let his rage loose as he imagined the scene.

Fuck it, he thought. I'll probably be buried before she even realizes anything's wrong. He envisioned her sobbing as she poured over stacks of funeral bills, casket bills, mortuary bills, undertakers bills. Let her sell her goddamn needlepoint to make the mortgage payment, he thought. His mouth curved up in just the tiniest of smiles as he contemplated the mess she'd be in.

Jack's vision was broken by a distant sound. His eyes squinted as he tried to discern its source over the bubbling hiss of the hot tub. As the sound grew louder, his eyes grew wide in alarm. It was Shirl's Pinto bouncing its way back up the driveway. In a flash Jack saw the scream that would issue from her mouth when she found him bubbling away in the hot tub.

He could hear exactly what the paramedics would be saying as the ambulance pulled away ... Don't worry, Ma'am. We're pretty sure we got to him in time. It's a good thing you found him when you did.

Jack saw days, months, years of depending on Shirl to wipe his ass and change his pissy diapers.

He breathed deeply and hooked his chin on the edge of the hot tub. Tilting his head upward, he strained, and then smiled as his head disappeared beneath the hot, soupy water.

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