The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

101
‘Jesus, you’re disgusting!’
‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ spluttered Bob. His breath was
the final straw; when he opened his mouth he released
a tomb full of fetid air. Boyle took decisive action.
Reaching into his pocket he produced half a pack of
mints (extra strong, XXX, Man Mints) and placed his
knee on Bob’s quicksand chest.
‘Open up you fucking piece of lard,’ he said,
trying to squeeze a chalky tablet through Bob’s mudflap
lips. ’I’m doing you a favour, you hog, you’ll kill
someone with that hell breath.’
Bob tried to wiggle free but to no avail; perhaps
his skeleton ricocheted inside its fleshy prison,
but on the outside the most he could manage was a
desultory quivering. His mouth, however, remained
resolutely shut. This, coupled with his burning buttocks,
drew the red curtains in Boyle’s mind.
‘You bulbous piece of shit!’ he yelled. ‘Your
mouth’s never closed. I didn’t even know there was a
hinge on it, you fucking Heffalump!’
He began ramming the mints, one by one, up
Bob’s flared and foliage strewn nostrils. ‘There you
go, Jelly Belly! You could fit a manhole cover up
those babies. And best of all,’ he panted, jamming the
last mint so far up Bob’s snout that when he pulled his
finger back out it was coated in blood and mucus to
the knuckle, ‘they’re only one fucking calorie!’
‘Boyle!’ The red curtains parted. Boyle found
himself squinting at the sudden light, his audience
regarding him with horror. He lifted his head to see
Flynn, his rotund boss, face apoplectic, centre stage
before him. ‘My office, now!’