The Brown Bag

Shock orange hair, Goba wore, over concrete white flesh. Blood-stained lips, Goba licked, as she deliberated her lunchtime feed. "I like my sandwiches with four eyes," she preened. "I like my sandwiches slightly living."

Goba salivated. Goba primmed. She eyed the time clock mincingly.

At hand awaited a brown bag. Within the brown bag Goba kept her sandwich. The brown bag sat ajar enough that the sandwich breathed. But the brown bag remained sealed enough that the sandwich ceased to breathe about mealtime. Goba finessed this balance very intentionally and quite exquisitely.

Then, finally: The lunch horn.

Goba fingered from the brown bag her sandwich. Goba gave her sandwich a haute leer.

"Oh, how it squirms!" she delighted. "And just lifelessly enough!"

Goba gobbed off half the sandwich.

She crunched.

From beneath her shock orange hair then, from within her blood-smeared lips then, Goba slushed, elegantly, "Prescription glasses add such zest!"

Goba crowned her delicate repast with a freshly plucked spruce limb from a nearby forest canopy.

Then she went back to her job managing other man-eating monsters.

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John Dishwasher

The Brown Bag