My insides taste like pickle juice… Why is it so hard to find quality gurgling videos?

Hallo all you humans, losers, dream-hugging-glorp-seeking followers of the black and white! It is I, the Great Prubo! I mean Prussia! Prussia the All-Powerful Multi-Dimensional and Incredibly Handsomely Rendered Force to be Reckoned With! (Not to mention bursting with strength while being simultaneously squishy and crinkly!)

I'm awesome, mon capitaine!

I've really been writing about my cosmic antics for a whole year now! Of course, that's just another jog around the block for a being who's seen empires turn into coffee talks and battles turn into cardboard tri-folds. I don't feel like the world's had to deal with my C.R.A.P. for two years. But the evidence makes the memories brutally heavy and sluggish. My favorite hoodies feel like paper from all the molecular overhauling, my ceiling has warped into a tiny dome from all the Geophonion practice distorting it, and my body hair still hasn't grown back after the inferno in Germany's kitchen. Plus there's Frau Froemming's restraining order and Sealand kicking me out of his unrecognized country Discord server "because atheists aren't allowed."

Pretty sure he meant "arsonists."

The suave old me would admit life moves fast, and you've got to puff out your chest and steel your gaze before somebody else tries to be cooler than you are. But when the universe flat-out admits you're the coolest in existence, it's easy to let your ego expand into a formless plasma and relax on your simmering buttcheeks for once.

Ach. Except for today, I guess. One year of recounting my antics, and I still have to mention my pipe-cleaning duties. First I detangle Germany's shower drain, and now I have to unclog America's kitchen sink. Mastering my sludgification has certainly helped! But I wish I was doing this of my own volition, and not under the terrible power of the butter knife.

The sink itself is coated with a thin layer of dried flour. Two spoons sit at the bottom of the right chamber — one coated in apple sauce and the other in sour cream. (Guess which one is America's comfort food.) In the drain, a few soggy slices of onion and bits of shredded cheddar cheese all hang together like a mound of flotsam caught on a rock. I know what's down there clogging the thing. A handful of pickle chunks and the juice between them.

The butter knife calls, so grumbling, I clear away the onion and cheese, then fit my fist into the circular drain. A shiver runs through my whole body. I can feel my muscles loosening and my bones softening. Like putty, my fingers start to press and merge together before the liquid skin utterly consumes them. My arm bends into an unnatural banana curve before all hard structures disintegrate.

SPLORSH-SCHLORP!

My skeleton melts instantly, and as an oozing pink mass of semi-solid human cells, I squeeze myself completely down the drain, leaving my clothes in a sweaty pile behind me.

The good thing is that as a sludge, I can't taste or smell. I'm basically swimming in my own innards, constantly swirling around in order to undulate me where I need to go. The bad thing is that as a soup of my former body, I can't diddle-daddle in drains for too long without absorbing too much stale air and excreting some vomit through my jiggly liquid skin. The most I give myself for cleaning drains is about five minutes. Usually this is enough to break down the hair in Germany's drain. America's pickle situation is a bit more difficult.

Ach. It's so slimy down here. Even slimier than I am. America's not one for keeping things spotless. A benefit for me, since I love to clean when I'm bored. But also an annoyance for me, because I should have to be bored before I see things worth cleaning. He doesn't pour his bacon fat down here, thank goodness, but as the little tendrils of my body feel around, they slip and slide over sticky strips of cheese and the slippery old droplets of aged canola oil. I even feel some orange pulp. This is just his breakfast from today! Imagine what's down deeper!

The part of me that wishes to be my head surges down and curves around, leading the rest of me to undulate and swell like an earthworm until I reach the problem section of the pipe. My flesh bubbles when it encounters the sour buildup of pickle juice. My tongue is floating somewhere in my stomach, but the stuff is so strong I can smell it through every sloppy layer. Carefully, little tendrils of sludge poke around, squishing the chunks and assessing their positions. Curiously, I poke and prod.

Then I shift and stretch. Each little tendril squeezes its way through the tiny cracks between pickle chunks. Once enough of me has filtered through the obstacle, I pull myself tight until a suction force starts schlorbling the rest of me around the chunks. My whole form cringes as it feels the pickles moving around, pressing into each other, dislodging, getting caught on other parts of the pipe…

I'm getting too full of kitchen slime. Only a minute or so before I have to return to the surface and purge all this grossness from my awesome mass. Little pockets of this musty air are getting trapped inside. Ceesus chips, I'm gonna be farting out pickles. Just my luck deciding to live in this corner of the world.

The part of me still wrapped around the pickle chunks tightens and tightens until it has them in a plasticky grip. Then it morphs and pulls them slowly out of their precarious pinch. Suddenly, a goosh of pickle juice flows freely down the drain, completely soaking me. I guess I solved the clogging problem! Time to emerge once more!

I slither and squiggle back up the pipe, using tendrils of sludge to climb until I ooze out the drain again. Then I swell and bloat back into a more formless mass that dribbles down the side of the sink onto my pile of clothes, spitting out the pickle chunks, which pop America himself in the stomach.

"All clean in there?" I hear him ask. It's a little muffled through the churning gurgles of fluid flesh.

Oh, he doesn't know the half of the grossness I felt down there. But the pickles are gone, so my godly task is completed. I lift up a peak of sludge and wave it up and down to simulate a nod.

"Awesome. Yeah, pickles never wanna drain for me. I thought those chopped ends were small enough to go down with the juice, but guess not. Thanks for the help."

My body jiggles at his lukewarm gratitude.

"Hey, don't be grumpy about it, Prubo. I've always been a nation of caveats. You wanna live here, hiding my cheese sticks and getting eyeliner all over my mirror, then you gotta pull your weight. If that means turning into a sludge monster and literally pulling your weight around, I'll accept it. Though you should prob'ly hop back in there and rinse off a little. Man, you're stinky. Is that 'cause o' the pickle juice, or is that just what human insides smell like? I did see that ad the other day about the poisonous stuff that sits in people's digestive systems too long if they don't eat enough fruit. What did you say about bananas being the best fiber?"

Now, I don't resent America for making me unclog the sink. I'm just a little hurt that he'd resort to using the butter knife so soon in our cohabitation. Yeah, I'm all-powerful, but I'm also responsible! And all-powerful! I could have just reversed entropy on the sink! Or even manifested new, clean pipes to fix it! Or sent a magic awesome laser beam down there to roast the pickles to gherkin ashes! Now I'm all sweaty and stinky and sour and pickle-farty, and… I'm just a little pickle pissed!

I slither and slide up onto America's feet, squishing between his bony toes. Then I bloat and swell and stretch myself until I'm even taller than he is. Before he can even screech, I engulf his whole body in sludge, squeezing and bubbling until I'm snugly between his fingernails. Then I jiggle and slosh and gurgle and churn until all the pickly grossness soaked into my body is equally coated onto his. He starts to thrash, but I hold tight, squelching all around his hands for extra gross-out. Kid won't watch be able to watch alien movies for weeks now! He'll be scared witless and I'll get to work on my teleplay at night!

Satisfied that enough greasy weirdness has left my innards, I slowly loosen my grip and begin to coalesce in on myself. My torso condenses, ribs crinkling into place on my spine. My muscles all bloom and creak outward, swelling, growing, bubbling and surging. My hands crick into shape. Then my feet. My skull schlorps up and sprouts its long-lost teeth.

I grow fully solid again, finally able to breathe out. Ach. Pickle breath.

And then my stomach cramps, my throat heaves, my jaw breaks, and I spit out America so hard that he slams into the open cupboard under the sink and completely busts the pipes.

So much for that endeavor.

"Will you treat me like the cosmic entity I am? I unclog Germany's drain because I love him. Rarely does he force me to. It's all right if you want me to do chores, but you can just tell me to do them! Really! I'll do anything you want! I love feeling responsible and purposeful! The butter knife is for emergencies, or when I'm being mopey!"

America twitches, his eyes all blank and his glasses askew. His face, hair and clothes are all moist with phlegm and pink glitter. "Your insides taste like pickle juice," he groans before flopping over in a defeated lump.

My red eyes blanch to petal pink. In shock, I scramble over to assess the damage.

"Well. Fine. Promise me to never, ever say a sentence like that again, and I'll let you try out the knife every once in a while. 'Kay? Okay? America? Eugh, your face is all purple. Do I have to root around for your consciousness in there?"

Faster than the wind on the plains, America slams a super-powered punch right into my gut. The breath leaves my body, and my body leaves its shape. I've spent this long as an ascended being, and still I'm not used to puffing into a cloud of frightened Prussia dust.

~N~

lol.

Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net May 19th, 2021. Go vote in my poll. Don't repost.