When you come into being on the Elemental Plane of Compost, there’s only so far down your life can go, but Mrrgthop have plumbed it. Giving wormjobs for acetone in the bathroom of Chili’s would be a step up, if Chili’s didn’t keep their bathrooms so damn clean.
“How much?” they gurgle.
“You’re organic, right?” asks the customer, fingers twitching.
“Technically,” say Mrrgthop, “yes.”
“Sixteen ounces,” she breathes.
Mrrgthop stick a pseudolimb into the grinder and bag the result. “You know there’s no FDA-approved study that indicates–” they begin.
“Who the fuck cares?” says the customer, and downs a handful.
“Okay,” says Byron. “Aside from the big red numbers counting down on this circuit box wired to a wad of… something, are we even sure it is an ED?”
Avery scratches his head. “Well, I mean, no. The dogs didn’t go off on it, and there’s nothing coming up on the Geiger…”
“Oh hell,” says Byron, “it’s a time bomb.”
“Really?” says Avery. “Shit, how long until it goes off?”
Byron’s voice is shaking. “I don’t think you understand. It’s a time–”
“Really?” says Avery, and there’s a quiet click. “Shit, how long until it goes off?”
“Oh hell,” says Byron.