The washing machine thrashed about angrily, filled with would-be 2319s. He
screamed as detergent slid under his eyelids and over his skin. The endless
spinning made him nauseous beyond belief. Piles of shirts, jeans and socks
pummeled him. Finally, he could take it no longer.
"BLECHHHH!!!!!!" He puked all over the machine. Yellow-white vomit sprayed
on the glass window. His own personal 24-hours-a-day roller coaster had
betrayed him again. The puke mixed with the clothes quickly and stained
them all. He felt the warmth of the liquid from his own innards that now
covered his live body like a liquid shroud.
A teenager with purple spiky hair and no apparent gender stared in the
window, not noticing the source of the problem. His? Her? face mushed into
something ugly, not unlike some of the people he had known.
"Awww, freaking machine! What the freak did you do to my clothes?" The kid
kicked the side of the machine. He felt the vibrations emanating into his
body.
An old, fat, bald man plodded over to the machine and looked in it. "I
don't believe this. The same problem as the other three." He stood up,
which took him a long time. "Rose?" he yelled. "Call the repair guy, we got
ourselves another problem. Same as before."
"No way," a whiny female voice yelled back. "I'm not going to spend 50
bucks on 'nothing's wrong!'"
"Rose, you stubborn mule, we're probably losing twice that in business each
time!" The man rubbed his forehead and sighed.
The teen squatted down and looked in the machine. "What is that stuff?"
"Beats me," the man said. He walked away in the same fashion as he had
before. The kid slumped down on the bench across from the machines.
It was some time later. The Laundromat was closed. He crawled out of the
machine and over to a small sink in the back. Grabbing a relatively clean
washcloth, he wet it and wiped himself off. Man, the feeling of that stuff
all over your skin. And the smell! Like a bouquet of flowers! Ripe!
He was pretty sure he had gotten it all off, so he turned off the water and
shook himself all over to dry, which wasn't easy, as he was not furry. Then
he gave himself a once-over in the poor light.
He was bruised all over, rather hard to tell as the bruises matched his
natural color almost perfectly. His eyes were all red, and he looked
positively sick, no thanks to that infernal machine.
His stomach grumbled. He couldn't help what he did, the puking, it was a
natural reaction to the washing machine's spinning. By day, he had to hide,
and the machine was the best place. He had tried to lay low on the benches,
but one day a woman sat on him. He couldn't risk that again. It was against
the Code.
He remembered the day he had first arrived. He was past due for a coffee
break, which would've been in only half an hour back where he came from. He
had only a couple of bucks, which he'd managed to borrow for milk with
lunch from one of the guys.
Before he was exiled.
It was a strange place, after the swamp. Though not much different from
home, it was so different, because here, nobody would see him as normal.
Nobody. He couldn't even go back to the kid. First of all, he didn't know
where the heck she was, and second of all, they could find him. They. The
very people who had put him here in the first place.
He walked the streets. Buildings made him feel so small. The noises he had
heard before. The sights he had seen before. This is now your life, they
all said. This. This pile of garbage bags. This dumpster. This broken-down
car. All of it was him. All of it was how he felt.
Sighing loudly, he walked over to the trash bags and lay down in them. Not
bad for a bed.
"PSSSSSSST! Wake up!"
Who was that? He opened his eyes and saw a dog-like creature staring at
him. She had pale blue eyes, and green-gray fur. Her ears hung down the
sides of her head like two large socks.
"You one of them?"
He didn't know how to respond. Was she an exile? What could she possibly
have done?
"You mean an exile?" he whispered, not sure why.
"Mmm-hmm," she said. "Are you hungry?"
screamed as detergent slid under his eyelids and over his skin. The endless
spinning made him nauseous beyond belief. Piles of shirts, jeans and socks
pummeled him. Finally, he could take it no longer.
"BLECHHHH!!!!!!" He puked all over the machine. Yellow-white vomit sprayed
on the glass window. His own personal 24-hours-a-day roller coaster had
betrayed him again. The puke mixed with the clothes quickly and stained
them all. He felt the warmth of the liquid from his own innards that now
covered his live body like a liquid shroud.
A teenager with purple spiky hair and no apparent gender stared in the
window, not noticing the source of the problem. His? Her? face mushed into
something ugly, not unlike some of the people he had known.
"Awww, freaking machine! What the freak did you do to my clothes?" The kid
kicked the side of the machine. He felt the vibrations emanating into his
body.
An old, fat, bald man plodded over to the machine and looked in it. "I
don't believe this. The same problem as the other three." He stood up,
which took him a long time. "Rose?" he yelled. "Call the repair guy, we got
ourselves another problem. Same as before."
"No way," a whiny female voice yelled back. "I'm not going to spend 50
bucks on 'nothing's wrong!'"
"Rose, you stubborn mule, we're probably losing twice that in business each
time!" The man rubbed his forehead and sighed.
The teen squatted down and looked in the machine. "What is that stuff?"
"Beats me," the man said. He walked away in the same fashion as he had
before. The kid slumped down on the bench across from the machines.
It was some time later. The Laundromat was closed. He crawled out of the
machine and over to a small sink in the back. Grabbing a relatively clean
washcloth, he wet it and wiped himself off. Man, the feeling of that stuff
all over your skin. And the smell! Like a bouquet of flowers! Ripe!
He was pretty sure he had gotten it all off, so he turned off the water and
shook himself all over to dry, which wasn't easy, as he was not furry. Then
he gave himself a once-over in the poor light.
He was bruised all over, rather hard to tell as the bruises matched his
natural color almost perfectly. His eyes were all red, and he looked
positively sick, no thanks to that infernal machine.
His stomach grumbled. He couldn't help what he did, the puking, it was a
natural reaction to the washing machine's spinning. By day, he had to hide,
and the machine was the best place. He had tried to lay low on the benches,
but one day a woman sat on him. He couldn't risk that again. It was against
the Code.
He remembered the day he had first arrived. He was past due for a coffee
break, which would've been in only half an hour back where he came from. He
had only a couple of bucks, which he'd managed to borrow for milk with
lunch from one of the guys.
Before he was exiled.
It was a strange place, after the swamp. Though not much different from
home, it was so different, because here, nobody would see him as normal.
Nobody. He couldn't even go back to the kid. First of all, he didn't know
where the heck she was, and second of all, they could find him. They. The
very people who had put him here in the first place.
He walked the streets. Buildings made him feel so small. The noises he had
heard before. The sights he had seen before. This is now your life, they
all said. This. This pile of garbage bags. This dumpster. This broken-down
car. All of it was him. All of it was how he felt.
Sighing loudly, he walked over to the trash bags and lay down in them. Not
bad for a bed.
"PSSSSSSST! Wake up!"
Who was that? He opened his eyes and saw a dog-like creature staring at
him. She had pale blue eyes, and green-gray fur. Her ears hung down the
sides of her head like two large socks.
"You one of them?"
He didn't know how to respond. Was she an exile? What could she possibly
have done?
"You mean an exile?" he whispered, not sure why.
"Mmm-hmm," she said. "Are you hungry?"