there was nothing left. there was nothing right. Politics had collapsed. There was nothing above, nor below. Religion had also vanished. There was nothing but contemplation of the navel. Thankfully such contemplation was often fruitful. Many men spent their days wondering where navel lint came from, especially in cases where the colour didn't match their shirts. "My polo shirt is red," muttered Craig, inserting a finger into his navel, "so why is the fluff navy?" He swiped a piece of lint and held it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. The belly button lint was buffeted by Craig's inhalation but clung precariously to his nasty resinous finger. Then the belly button lint inhaled Craig whole. Craig watched his body disappear as it digested itself through his stomach. He could only gasp in horror before his mouth too was sucked into the neverending cavern of flesh and agony. Nothing remained but his high school ring, which was found out in the desert in a petrified pile of poop. The old prospector who found it, took it to town, hoping that it would make him rich, but it didn't. In fact, the ring held an ancient curse: if ever it wasn't worn on a finger, its holder would cause a slight, inexplicable discomfort in the people around him. The man knew that if the ring were not worn, first impressions would go badly. Or he could chuck the cursed ring in a sewer drain. Then all then pack rats would feel socially awkward until

 

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1 Zetawilk's photo

Full stop.

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