Flash Fiction: “Shit Monster”

My life is shit.
I mean… Godzilla, all the Godzillas in fact, even the awful ones.
King Kong. The Kraken. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy.
The Werewolf, The Wolfman, whichever one you prefer.
All these guys; now they were monsters.
But me?
Jesus, talk about the short, feces-encrusted end of the stick.
Allow me to set the scene, or at least a scene, if I may.

You’re driving along a winding country road in the small hours, in heavy rain, when your car breaks down.
Of course, it does. That’s how these things go. We all know that.
No other cars pass for ages, your phone has no signal, blah blah blah.
Against your better judgment, but right in line with what seemingly sane people do in these situations, you leave the warmth and safety of your car and decide to go looking for someone who can help. Or a phone. Or someone who can help by giving you a phone.
To keep dry, you leave the road and take to the cover of the trees.
You come across a path.
Hey, it might lead somewhere, right?
Oh, and it does.
It leads you right into the lair of a creature the likes of which you could never have imagined, not without the help of mushrooms.

There’s a strong smell of shit, tinged with the acrid sting of piss.
Poop marinated in pee-pee, basically.
Poop à la pee-pee.
Nothing can equip you for the stench. It even brings tears to my eyes sometimes. But then tears are a big part of my, shall we say, “DNA”.
It looks like a tornado has been through here. Trees are uprooted. Debris is strewn all across the forest floor that certainly does not belong here, not naturally. There are random food cartons and leftovers discarded, squashed and smeared everywhere. Some of the cardboard containers have been torn into little pieces, others have been half-eaten and regurgitated by the look of things.
Oh fuck, you think. You’ve just wandered into a grizzly’s sitting room. But then you spot the toys.
Brightly colored plastic artefacts are dotted across the landscape.
The dolls are missing limbs.
The trucks are missing wheels.
You pick one up to take a look, and a high-pitched cry rings out in the darkness, followed by heavy, thundering, fast-moving footfalls that, judging by the way they’re getting louder, are moving in your direction.
The toy slips from your grasp as the shape looms out of the darkness, reeking in the glow of that unimaginable stench, its face laminated in drool. And snot. Lots of snot, congealed and set hard to its soft features like superglue.
It doesn’t run, so much as stumble. And when it reaches you, it loses its balance and falls over, before righting itself, standing up, and falling backwards. Onto its not-inconsiderable, fit-to-bursting-diaper-covered ass, with a loud, yoghurty squelch. The jet of noxious fumes this releases is accompanied by flecks of a wet substance you instinctively try to wipe from your face as your gag reflex kicks in.
The thing reaches down with a pale, fat, sticky hand the size of a dustbin lid and snatches up the toy you just dropped. Then it bends forward, dribble spilling out of the corners of the gaping hole set in the middle of its out-of-proportion, huge hairless head and booms the only word it knows into your face
By the time you realize you’re in the presence of a fifteen foot tall, five thousand pound baby, it’s already tossed away the toy it charged out of the darkness to retrieve and has picked you up.
Congratulations. You are its new play thing.
Only “play” probably isn’t the right word, because just like any baby, the first thing it does is put you in its mouth and bite down hard, working you back and forth across its teeth until something gives, which given your relative size and, let’s call it pliability, is less than thirty seconds.
In less than another thirty seconds, it grows bored of your limp, lifeless, unresponsive form and tosses you into the brush with all the other headless dolls, and returns into the darkness to sulk.
Which is what I’m doing now.
I hope my little story has brought you up to speed.
Why is a monster baby hiding out in the woods, you might think?
Well where the hell else should I hide?
There’s just no natural fit, it seems to me.
Godzilla: the ocean. Dracula: a castle. King Kong: a tropical island. They just all seem to work. But a big baby? You tell me, Einstein. All I can do is hope that when I get older, I grow some hair, a lot of hair, all over my body. Then at least I can assume the role of Bigfoot. That would work, if I can figure out how to get this damned diaper off. When I said my life is shit, I wasn’t joking.
Anyway, I’m getting cranky.
I need to go for a nap.
Go away.

You know what? I thought I’d go back and take another pass at this one, give it a humorous take, write it from the, em, monster’s point of view.

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