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We’re Published!

We did it! We took the plunge and uploaded our first short story to Amazon!
Grab Blob Fits In for your Kindle by clicking here.

We’re both so proud of this crazy little story. Please, take a peek and let us know what you think. We’re still learning about formatting and such, so feel free to give suggestions.

We’ll update when we have a Barnes and Noble link.

In the mean time, here’s a sample from Blob Fits In:

“Where’s that damn water-boy?!” Coach C. shouted, popping a handful of pills for his acid reflux and his high blood pressure. He even chewed on a nicotine patch, his nerves were so wracked.

“He wants to be on the team and can’t even manage to wrangle up the water for my boys when they need it!” The coach shook his head in disgust over the Nancys that were allowed near the field these days.

It was the last timeout of the big game, only seconds left on the clock. His team was only down by a few points. They could still take home the win. Pass McYardline, the quarterback, had been looking good, but the unseasonal heat was beginning to take a toll on him. Coach watched him sweating, looking around for Ernest, the water-boy. He was nowhere to be found.

Coach C. ground his teeth in frustration as he watch the timeout clock tick down. Finally, the ref waved a hand and the team staggered back on to the field, still parched.

“Please, lord, just give us this one,” Coach C. muttered under his breath.

Beside him, the assistant coached asked, “Do you really think praying will help?”

Coach C. spat on the sidelines and said, “You don’t get to be in my position without seeing stranger things. Don’t forget: I’m a high school football coach.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Coach C. wondered whether he would remember this day as one of his greatest victories, or whether he would drink it out of his brain tonight at McGlork’s.

A flag, a whistle and then, sport was happening. Coach C. resisted the urge to scream and pump his fists with the rest of the crowd.
A perfect pass!
A break in the opponents’ defensive line!
One arm outstretched!
A fumble…?
No!

“Bulldogs win! Bulldogs win!” the student announcers in the box were shouting, losing their minds with the rest of the audience in the bleachers.

Pass was hoisted bodily, carried off the field on the shoulders of his teammates. The defensive team rose to meet the knot of players exiting the field. They raised their hands to Pass to slap him five or simply to pour their gratitude onto him.

Someone must have finally found Ernest, the water boy. The bright orange cooler of Brawdo was humping over the heads of the players from the locker room doors. Coach C. couldn’t even muster the anger to yell at Ernest. He was too caught up in the moment. He was the first to tip the big cylinder of liquid over, intending to spill its contents on Pass’ head: baptism by football.

Instead of the expected gush of neon liquid, the cooler made a slurping, squelching sound. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum, a sickly, translucent mucus began to ooze down upon the unsuspecting quarterback. At odd seconds, it make wet sucking sounds as air forced its way through the glop, popping bubbles in its wake.

Ernest shlumped and sklooped out of the cooler on to Pass’ head. The young man screamed while there was still air to breath, but soon his sounds of terror were cut short. Acrid smoke filled the air as Ernest’s caustic cytoplasm burned its way through Pass’ flesh. Soon, only small sucking sounds like a dog drowning could be heard.

Ernest blew a dense puff of sulphurous smelling air from between two flappy, temporary pseudopods.

“‘Sorry’?! Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it, boy!” Coach C. yelled at the quivering mass on the field still dissolving its way through Pass’ pads and bones.

“That was the finest high school quarterback since-” Coach C. sniffed and the surrounding players removed their helmets respectfully. “Since Rod Jockstrap. And you gone and glooped him right to death! There ain’t nothin’ left of him but a few feet!”

Quickly, a wave of filthy snot washed over Pass’ exposed feet. The inevitable followed: putridity and liquescence.

A rattling fart escaped from some underfolds of Ernest’s flab-body.

“No, I’m not going to ‘eat this football’! What on earth would give you such an i-”

Coach C. snapped his hand back in time to avoid losing any fingers as Ernest guiltily grabbed the pigskin and began to metabolize.

Ernest shrugged as best he could in an apologetic manner, but no one was interested.

“Aw, man!” the crowd shouted. And, “Oh, good one, Ernest!” Disgusted with his behavior, the spectators slowly cleared the field. The last one to leave shouted at Ernest through cupped hands, “Get out of here, freak! You’ll never fit in!”

At length, Ernest was left alone on the sidelines, nothing but the metal buckles from Pass’ uniform to keep him company. Even these were quickly wearing away. They too would be consumed.

Ernest farted. He burped. He reverse farted, it was somehow even more disgusting. Lonely and unloved, Ernest squatted in the coming darkness.
It began to rain.

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