Considerate Sadism

In other news, Sleepy Morning in the Magma struggled in agony to reach a rock island safe from the lava. Strangely, no body parts were burnt, only tingling in a leaping pain, like the whole body was dipped in extra spicy food. Sleepy Morning in the Magma took seven minutes to stand up fully.

A flying worm wafted past Sleepy Morning in the Magma, its wings longer and larger than itself. It dove into the expansive lake of magma, rustled its head down into the scorching liquid, and came up, chewing and swallowing something. The worm circled in mid-air then rushed at Sleepy Morning in the Magma’s head. A crunching sound filled Sleepy Morning in the Magma’s head and hot blood slid and pushed out of a gape on the side of the head–the worm had bitten half of Sleepy Morning in the Magma’s ear off.

It was so hot down there that the wound cauterized and also only stung a bit. Still, Sleepy Morning in the Magma screamed. The sound was muted and yet realized–Sleepy Morning in the Magma could not hear it and still felt satisfied.

In the distance Sleepy Morning in the Magma saw a fleet of grey dust concealing the swinging advance of a small army of sickly, twitching humanoids. They naturally exhaled a grey and putrid-looking smoke. One saw Sleepy Morning in the Magma, moaning, “FOREIGNERRRR” and raising its hand.

“FOREIGNERRRR” they all said.

“I am a Foreigner,” thought Sleepy Morning in the Magma, and stood proud, awaiting the advance of the fleet of the grey, smoky humanoids.

The stopped on the cliff face about 50 feet away. “We are the Smoke Doctors,” they said. “You are the Foreigner.” The Foreigner nodded, already forgetting Sleepy Mornings and aware that was not the real name of itself anyhow. The Smoke Doctors, in unison, reached down to the ground, picked up a large hunk of rock, and chewed and swallowed as one.

“How did I end up here?” asked the Foreigner.

The Smoke Doctor in the front of the pack blew a thick cloud in the Foreigner’s direction.

“Don’t bother,” he said.

The Smoke Doctors danced a little and stood up and stared hard into the Foreigner’s face.

“You will stay here forever, probably,” they said. “There is no hope for you, probably.” The Foreigner began to cry.

“You can cry if you want to,” the Smoke Doctor in the front said. “But here, come here, you might like this.”

The Smoke Doctor floated to the Foreigner’s face and said, “Open your mouth.” Choking back the sobs, the Foreigner’s mouth open wide, with closed eyes. The Smoke Doctor began twitching, near seizure-levels of shaking, and conjured a blue glow that traveled from the center of his chest up to his throat and a brilliant azure cloud released from his mouth like neon, like a radiant blast. “Inhale, inhale.” The Foreigner sucked in the blue cloud.

Slipping away, forgetting all things, the Foreigner became a true anonymous person inside the magma lair. The Foreigner forgot everything and decided to act first and consider the Foreigner as a human subject in only a secondary way. The Foreigner realized there was no gravity on the magma rock, and floated across the lava in an untroubled ease, high beyond belief.

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About vurinstitute

Horatio Somersault is the Director and Regent Chancellor of the VUR Institute, a think tank involving some as-yet-unknown and slightly spooky manipulations of time and interdimensionality. In his spare time Somersault enjoys writing poems and fables. You can read his writings, as well as those of other VUR inhabitants, at vurinstitute.wordpress.com. Though he lives a wanderer's life, his hometown is a domed biome inside the water core of the moon Europa. You can follow his experiences adapting to the customs of the early 21st century on his Twitter @VURdirector and can email him at vurinstitute at gmail dot com.
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