Terrence Worm

Terrence was a worm. A worm soft and bitter. He hated life. Blind and only able to eat mud he cried every single night. Although he wasnt sure what was night and day for he had no way of telling. This one particular day, terrence surfaced by the road side, which was not uncommon. It was a strike of luck if he made it into the undergrowth and real bad news if he landed up in a wide open space, like a park for instance (birds would get him). Thankfully today was a good day.

The road side was a safe enough bet, (the verge i mean, not the tarmac, that would be quite different, he'd get run over, or worse). On the flip side however, this was a particularly hot day - the sun was shining and such. And although this would be a welcomed weather happening for you or eye (being human an all) Terrence was, as i remember, a worm. As a worm, being soft and that, he was prone to sun stroke and would get a little crispy and die in direct uv glares. This pissed him off. he wanted so much to lay beside the pool with the lady humans, stare at their tits and things, but he couldn't, it wasn't practical.

So as it was Terrence surfaced, poking his little nose thing up through the giant grains of mud and into the warm damp air. He cursed the fucking sun for being so darn beautiful and deadly like a big yellow black widow spider - floating so nicely in sky sea web.
He was a drunk too - couldn't keep a grip - lost his children to the social services and his wife to some trendy young anarchist type with a massive cock. Poor bastard, he only went to get some milk, but he couldn't resist the tasty scotch drink sitting there so pretty. And what was to follow would determine the end of his story.

It was the peaty taste you see; the delicate aroma of posh smoky soil that only the wealthy could afford. This particular brand of drink however was designed for the slightly poorer folk, like Terrence worm, who couldn't pay for the top notch stuff but liked to splash out a little bit. Their customers would excuse a little harshness on the throat for a taste glimpse of aristocrasy. So he went for it @fuck you terrence!@ he said and before he'd even got his change he'd necked half the bottle. He grabbed the milk with his tail end, got confused in the excitement and head-butted the till. But he couldn't carry the whiskey at the same time. So he threw the milk (which went absolutely everywhere) at the fridge and left in a real rockstar fashion. The milk went on to smell really bad because no one could be bothered to clean it up. Terrence put his noise cancellation headphones on and strut down the street to 'where is my mind' by the pixies, wishing for slow motion and moody lighting. When he made the last turn into his particular neck of the woods he could see an unfamiliar pile of curly worm poo sitting outside his front door.

@Who the fuck are you you cunt?!@ he shouted at the male intruder that was sliming his massive french stick all over his pretty little peach worm wife. @What the fucking hell are you doing in my home?!@ The guy didn't answer, he couldn't speak proper english and didn't care to learn. So he just put his thing back in (which was a dramatic process, it being so large an all) and left. But not before a little sweet whisper in terences ear: @i like that mole next to her left nipple, it's cute@ Terrence fucking died when he heard that, and no one cared. Everyone left and spat on him as they walked out.

The end.