Subteran Exutoire

Some birthday parties take place in backyards. Others in bowling alleys. Little Jimmy chose the Tenth Pit of Hell. No one really argued. The moment the boy uttered his wish, the air tightened like a knot in the throat of the world. Jimmy convulsed violently. His pupils burst open and he began vomiting eyes. Not metaphorical ones. Real, wet, blinking eyes. Dozens. Hundreds. They rolled across the floorboards like lost marbles while rotten gums and a solitary pickled egg slid out after them with ceremonial dignity. Then Jimmy imploded. A polite little detonation of organs and powdered bone. Party over.