Tongue of the Unloved

This story contains sexually explicit material.

Tongue of the Unloved
by Charles Coffman

Alfie waddled through the depressing little alley behind the butcher shop. He always takes this route to the YMCA. As he stepped from pothole to pothole, he pinched his nose shut. The air really stank, like the underside of an infected toenail. Spoiled cuts of raw meat thrown out by the butcher had been strewn along the pavement by rats and stray cats, and were left to fester half-chewed in the sun. Alfie didn’t mind the smell as much as he minded the flies. They swirled about in lazy black clouds, and glittery purple clusters of them laid eggs in the most spoiled cuts of meat.

Alfie felt low today, lower than usual, as if a big iron fist had bashed his head into the saddest part of his body. He walked like he felt, with his weird slanted eyes downcast at his shuffling feet. Releasing a heartbroken sigh from his lungs every so often, he plucked at the fat and bolder flies that landed on his fish-lips.

He thought about his pear-shaped body and the discolored flabs of flesh that swing about on his chest that Meyer Smitts called “man boobs,” and wondered if he should swim with his shirt on again today. Then Alfie spotted a viscous-looking rat dragging a pink lump across the alley.

The rat looked at him. Alfie looked at the rat. A stalemate.

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