The finger started moving on it's own accord.

The finger started moving on it's own accord. Why though? Why now? It dragged me across the room, pulling me out the door and on to the streets of London. It was a rainy afternoon

"WHY NOW?" I screamed, preoccupied with timing of it all. A passing gaggle of kids snickered as the finger dragged me down cobblestone streets. The finger politely replied "Because

Madame Morticia wishes it." It was disturbing to be spoken to like this by a finger. It's unwise to bite the hand that feeds you but I was teed off. I twisted around and bit down.

Madame Morticia's finger tasted like a guacamole. I kept eating.

Madame Morticia's toes tasted like baba ganoush. I kept eating some more.

My gentle chewing reminded me of something - when I was young, being raised by my ape mother in the jungle. But Madame Morticia’s toes had a robust flavour to them, and satisfied

my need for protein after all those years of bananas. "Only three more, darling," Morticia giggled at me, "or I shall have to buy smaller shoes." "I'm sorry. How greedy of me," I

polish my Bishop for me? She looked at me like that was my job. She reached around in the lockers and found me some ankle weights. "You look good eating a banana," she said smiling

and then she strolled away slowly stripping away her fashion as she vanished into the dark end of the passageway, my jaw plainly touching the ankle weights at the tops of my feet.