Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

They live on the second floor. Not Luka, and I have not seen them before. They moved in during the quarantine, and from what I can surmise from the noise they make, they are 800 pound aliens from outer space, with eight legs, and hammers for fingers. They kill people, cut them up after midnight, put them in bespoke plywood crates, hastily assembled with chainsaw and nails. Once boxed, they drag their victims back and forth across the floor, rolling marbles and bowling balls in a frenzied ritual of murder and mayhem. It repeats night after night.

They chant the ceremonial dirge of their home planet at all hours of the day. It goes something like, grr-screech-groan-clank bang bang bang trumpet noise toilet flush. Violin and bathtub draining, falling down, falling down, horses leaping, Superman fighting, and always with the violent sex, pull my hair pull my hair pee on me, followed by snoring.

The cacophony repeats every 20 minutes. I think its a religious thing, but I am not very well read on the social practices of Venusians. I suppose they could be from your anus. Uranus. I’m not an astronomer—whichever one is the monster planet.


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