Tevun-Krus #53 - Return to First Contact

It Came from Uranus - A Short Story by @MadMikeMarsbergen

1

I stared at the toilet, shuffling my feet while I clenched my cheeks. I had to take a shit but had been putting it off for a couple weeks. I couldn't remember when I'd started becoming afraid of feces and the act of defecation, but I believed it all started with avoiding my regular nightly bowel movements. It was so easy at first—feel the urge, shrug it off and stand by my computer chair, massage my fingers into the leather and foam, and soon the urge would pass. I just kept doing it.

Initially I didn't think too much of it. I'd missed a night before. My logic was I'd simply take a bigger dump the next night. But I skipped that night, too. And the next night.

And then when I wanted to shit, I just couldn't do it. Nothing would come out, no matter how hard I squeezed, no matter how much I cleared my mind and concentrated. I was starting to worry. Throughout the day, particularly in the mornings and after eating, I would get horrible gut pains. My belly would not so much roar as it would whimper, and the feeling of immense pressure in my intestines would occur.

I thought I might explode.

So there I was: two weeks without a turd, wondering how long I could go on like that. I'd picked up some laxatives from the store and was planning on having a go at them later that evening.

But, of course, I ended up putting that off, too.

2

The next day, I went to the walk-in clinic. I wanted to hear from a professional about my little problem.

"So let me get this straight," Doctor Malkovich said, massaging his temples. He leaned with his back against the counter. "You haven't passed a stool for roughly two weeks, even though you felt the urge, and you're wondering if that's okay?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm thinking of never passing another stool again."

"Th-That's crazy! You need to defecate. Immediately. The longer you go without, the more you put yourself at risk of an impacted bowel. At some point you'll be feeling so—pardon the pun—shitty, you'll be vomiting, you'll get a fever. Fecal matter is toxic waste. It's not meant to be stored in your body very long. Your bowels will eventually perforate and the feces will leak into your bloodstream, leading to serious infection. You could die."

"So what should I do?" I asked, humouring him.

He laughed harshly. "You should pass a damn stool! Take a laxative and drink plenty—plenty—of water. But don't strain yourself, or you could be seriously injured. If all else fails, get yourself to the ER pronto. Don't put this off any longer. Please. You're still young, and this is very, very foolish."

3

What can I say? I took a laxative. Hell, I took two. My visit to the doctor put the fear in me—it really hit home how much I'd screwed up. So I drank two litres of water and waited. Played some video games. The back of the laxative box said it would take six hours until "easy relief" occurred. It recommended taking them before bed, but I didn't have time to wait for bed—not according to the good doctor.

It was around hour four when I started feeling like someone had me squeezed around the middle with a great big vise. The pain was excruciating. I thought maybe the flow of shit was coming, so I got up and moved to the washroom, but a sudden stabbing sensation in my gut doubled me over. I fell to the floor. On my hands and knees, dry-heaving, farting like no tomorrow. My belly percolated like I'd chased a couple Mentos with a bottle of Coke. I retched. Chalk-white foam spilled out onto the floor.

So sweaty. And cold. I shivered beside my foamy puke, wondering when it would end and how much worse it could possibly get. I suddenly felt the desire to be naked, so I closed my eyes and worked on taking off my shirt and pants. Something about those clothes—especially with the clamminess I felt—made them seem suffocating. I needed to be free. Kicking away my jeans, I pulled down my soaking-wet boxers and sobbed away the pain.

It would come in waves. Like my body would get a signal to start forcing out all the shit inside me, and then when it realized that was an impossible task—maybe there was a blockage somewhere—the pain would recede. But it came back. It always came back. Again and again.

Until it finally came out.

I screamed as my asshole expanded and what felt like a basketball pushed its way out of my ass, followed by a flood of green diarrhea. And the feeling of relief when it was finally out was almost orgasmic.

And then a wheezy, rough voice said: "Jee-hee-zus fuckin' Christ, it really reeked in there, boy."

I turned and saw a round brown stool the size of a bowling ball on the floor, next to my bleeding rectum, which had prolapsed during the struggle.

"What the fuck're you lookin' at, shiteyes. I got some corn in my teeth?" The turd's shit-brown lips widened, revealing a shiny set of white teeth. And, yes, there was corn. "I'm hungry. Feed me, shitbag."

I was too shocked and disturbed to say anything.

"Ah, fuck this shit. I'm going home." Causing a great amount of pain, the turd slid back into my rectum, leaving a greasy brown trail in its wake.

My vision dimmed, and then went black.

4

The pain seemed to wake me, seemed to intrude upon my dream of flying before I'd actually awakened. It was a dull sort of pain, slightly numbed, too. My eyelids fluttered open and I lowered my gaze to my rear. Immediately I let out a groan. The ball of shit was munching away on my anal prolapse like it was eating spaghetti.

"The fuck's your problem, buddy?" it asked me between bites. "You know how long I've been waitin' to come out? It's your own damn fault for bein' an idiot." Bloody bits of yellow-brown flesh would fly from its mouth when it spoke. It belched, which reeked like a sewer. "Ah, shit that was good eatin'. I could really use a smoke."

"I don't smoke," I said. I was crying. The pain was agonizing.

"Pussy," it said.

I tried to crawl away. Every inch I moved sent white-hot fire to my rear, which seemed slightly glued to the floor.

"Oh, no you don't!" The turd slid over in front of me, opened its mouth wide and bit off my nose.

"Ahhh!" Reflexively, I put my hands to where my nose used to be, but that only made things worse. Blood gushed, poured out of me. My hands felt hot and sticky.

"Listen, fag," the shit said to me. "I've come a long way and waited a looong fuckin' time for this, and you're gonna be a good fuckin' host and feed me. Got that? If you don't, you've got lots of good meat I can eat."

"How the... What the..." I muttered, getting dizzy. Everything was spinning. "Where the... hell... did you come from...?"

The turd laughed and spat in my face. "Uranus, dipshit. My friends and I hitched a ride on a pod. We were just spores then, but that's all we fuckin' needed to be. We got in your food, in your water, and now you and a bunch of other fuckin' stupid humans have either given birth to us, or are incubatin' us as we speak. Your kind is goin' down, bitch. Now be a good little bitch and let me eat your skin!"

I tried to fight it off. But I was too weak, dazed and confused, and it was too quick, too dirty. It ate me piece by piece, taking little chunks out of me here and there, strips of flesh from tender places. It would smear itself into my wounds. They eventually became infected, and I thought maybe that would be a good thing, thought maybe the infection would poison it. But it laughed when it realized what I was thinking. It said my pus-filled wounds were like gravy to its kind.

Now I'm probably thirty pounds, and so weak. Everything hurts. It's hard to focus. It made me record an audio log on what happened. It's like porn to the creature, or something. It gets off to my suffering. Apparently a lot of people are dead. It tells me every now and then about how hopeless it all is, that I should just die.

Maybe I will. Maybe that's how I'll win.