The Good God

A Little Slice of Devyn - Part 6

Devyn wriggled and screamed desperately, trapped upside down with her limbs smooshed against her body as the slick walls of the esophagus slithered over her skin, squeezing her downwards. Chelsea could just barely feel the tiny struggles and giggled at the sensation, her throat muscles sending violent vibrations against Devyn. She felt a rhythmic pounding rattling against her, growing stronger as she descended through Chelsea's chest, past her heart, then weaker again as she came to a sudden stop, the top of her head pressing up against something solid. The relentless muscles pushed against her, and her head slithered into a slickened sort of tube, followed by her body, and then she was suddenly plunging downward, diving head first into a thick pool of hot, gunky, cheesy slime.

She kicked herself to the surface of the scorching pool, paddling her arms madly in the hulking waves and gasping for air that was not there. She choked and coughed as the toxic fumes of stomach acid burned her throat, as well as a cocktail of partially digested pizza, potato chips, and orange soda. There was zero light in the gaping, gurgling grotto, but still, Devyn could see, quite well, the orangish, bubbling pool and, in the distance, the wrinkled, mucus-coated walls. Her skin was already burning and blistering within the boiling depths and she could not help but afford what little amount of breath she had to wail in agony, her choking screams drowned out by the gurgling of Chelsea's digestive juices, the rhythmic pounding of her heart above.

There was a deafening gurgle as the wrinkled stomach walls wriggled ominously, and then clapped towards each other, giving the burning pool a violent churn and the thick waves slammed into Devyn, hurling her up against the stomach wall between two wrinkles, and she clawed at the slimy wall, desperate to pull herself from the scorching pool. The stomach quivered and vibrated with the muffled sounds of Chelsea's giggles overhead as she felt the lightest of tickling sensations.

She smiled down at her tummy. Welcome to your new home, little bug. She patted her belly. Hope you like it in my tummy.

The sudden pounding from beyond the stomach wall was enough to knock Devyn loose from the stomach walls, back into the churning current. She kicked and thrashed and swam with all her strength, screaming as her skin burned and cracked. The pool waved and crashed violently again as Chelsea rose from the couch and walked across the room, and Devyn was sucked down into the slime. She held her breath as long as possible, hearing Chelsea's muffled voice talking to someone. Finally it became too much and she gasped in a scorching mouthful of partially digested pizza. She gagged and sputtered as it filled her lungs.

God she fucking hated pizza.

She always had.

Perhaps she'd always known she would die this way. Perhaps she'd had some intuition that she'd someday burn in a pool of pizza, that she'd drown in it, and that was why she'd never cared for it, much.

Why the fuck had she ever taken this stupid fucking job? If only she could go back in time and quit, like she'd wanted to for fucking years, now. If only she could go back and stop herself from taking the stupid fucking job in the first place.

But, of course, she knew never would have, for one simple reason.

Katie.

Katie fucking Tarmino, heiress to the Tarmino's Pizza franchise.

Katie, with her cute little smirk and stupid jokes.

Katie, who was always popping in to work to visit, not her, but fucking Harvey.

Katie, who, God willing, would forever remain blissfully unaware that she had accidentally fed her best friend to some random teenager, when she'd only wanted to help her.

Katie, who would also remain blissfully unaware that Devyn had been madly in love with her since ninth grade, that her parents had actually sent her to 'therapy' for it at their church, where she'd knelt on the floor in a huddle of other mentally disturbed girls, one of whom Devyn would kneel before in the alley behind said church, tasting the sin from between her legs.

She'd never mustered up the courage to tell Katie, but she'd never quit, either, and so here she was in the churning depths of Tarmino's Pizza, where the agony of her sins were cleansed from her at last; burned away, as infection may be burned from flesh.

And yet, she was not dead.

Why the fuck wasn't she dead yet?

She had not breathed in ages, her lungs were full of bile, her skin had melted to the bone. But wait, that wasn't right; her skin was just fine. It had melted, she'd felt it, she'd seen it bubbling away through blood and muscle tissue.

It had regenerated.

Then she understood. And it was so obvious, she couldn't help but laugh; a choking sort of laugh, her mouth gurgling with vile, burning slime.

This was Hell. Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.

She had neglected to pluck thine offending eye and so she'd been cast into the burning lake, and was doomed to burn for all eternity, as her parents always knew she would.

"Whassup, God!" she choked out through her mouthful, her mind already cracking up, because it was Chelsea she was addressing. "The fuck'd I ever do to you!"

She slapped the walls of God's stomach to make her listen, but God had already forgotten all about the tiny inhabitant of her stomach and had commenced munching mindlessly on potato chips.

And as the foul comets rained down upon her, colliding with tumultuous splashes into the lake of fire, she heard the voice of God, herself, but it was not Chelsea who spoke.

The commandment was spoken, for all three thousand four-hundred and fifty-two shrunken men, women, and children to hear, none of whom were dead but most of whom were wishing to be. Many, like Devyn, were swimming in the vile hellfire of someone's stomach, while others were trapped in or adhered to the steaming genitals of the person they'd been having relations with when they shrank. The lucky ones were screaming their heads off atop countertops to try and get someone's attention, or else cowing beneath furniture, enduring near constant earthquakes as feet the size of city blocks stomped by. The less lucky were crushed under toes or smeared beneath fingernails or plastered against whoever's ass had plopped a squat on top of them.

Some had lost limbs, only to have new ones regenerated moments later. Hundreds no longer resembled anything remotely human, but were merely smears of bone and hair and guts, still somehow conscious and constantly smashing and recovering and smashing and recovering and smashing and recovering, again, and again, and again, and again.

From wherever they were, and whatever they were, every single one of them looked up in unison when they heard God speak to them, with one, simple commandment:

WORSHIP ME.