ripening

 

“I love you, John,” Lump whispered.

“I… know…” John said, unwrapping another string cheese and feeding it into his maw.

“Another mean journalist tries small talk with you, you just let me drive, buddy.”

John grunted.

“You have to be Senator,” Lump said. “I need access to the halls of power.”

“Pow… er,” John agreed.

“Do you need something, sir?” his campaign nurse asked.

John pulled his hood down over his face, frowning. He handed a string cheese to the nurse. The slim brunette unwrapped it and handed the tube carefully back to John. She knew by painful experience not to get her fingers near his mouth.

“Crudetitty,” he grunted.

She paused for a long moment and then her face lit up. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

Lump pulsated with pleasure, the warmth of the tumor’s love spreading down John’s misshapen body, his tiny chicken legs shivering.

“Soon I will be all there is, John. Think about it,” Lump purred.

John looked into the darkness of the hood over his eyes and saw nothing. The hockey jersey under his hoodie itched, the nylon catching long back hairs and wrenching them out when he fidgeted. He made a gurgling noise until a spit bubble formed, popped, and ran down his goatee.

“Oh, no, sir,” the nurse said, swinging the tray she was carrying out of the way and grabbing a napkin. “You had a little accident.”

“Acc-dent,” John agreed and grimaced, his lower jaw jutting out.

“And here is your vegetable plate,” she said brightly, setting it down in front of him.

“Thank the pretty lady, John,” Lump said. “Appearances must be maintained.”

“Tank you… for… crudetitty,” John grunted.

“You are very welcome!” she said, giving a little wave as she walked away.

John reached for the tub of Ranch dressing in the middle of the vegetable tray and drank it down in three large gulps.

“Is it nap-time already?” Lump asked. “I was hoping to bounce some ideas for the campaign off of you.”

“De-bate,” John said. “John want debate.”

“I really think that’s a terrible idea,” Lump said. “You are having such trouble communicating right now.”

“But only no speak,” John countered. “Mind work good. Mind more mind than mind.” He scratched at one of his tattoos until the skin began to flake away.

“But I can read for you, man. We are going to go far, John. So far,” Lump said. “You’ll be in the Senate and I can finally release my spores. Then they will all have Lumps. They will all be Fetterized!”

“Good,” John said as he drank of a third of a bottle of canola oil. He wiped oil off his lips and began to massage it into the tumor on his neck.

“Oh, God,” Lump moaned. “You know just how to make it feel so good.”

John splashed more seed oil on his hand and rubbed Lump until it was slippery all over and glistened like a roasting turkey.

“Turk-ee!” John bellowed.

“Turkey,” Lump agreed. “Turkey.”

 

 

Other than misgendering Lump (while Lump presents as a masculine tumor, them use they pronouns) the song is frighteningly on point.

Note: I have fixed the song hateful lyrics to reflected our more enlighten times.

Lump sat alone in a boggy marsh
Totally emotionless except for them heart
Mud flowed up into lump’s pajamas
Them totally confused all the passing piranhas

They’s lump, Them’s lump
Them’s in my head
They’s lump, Them’s lump, Thrum’s lump
Them might be dead

Lump lingered last in line for brains
And the one them got was sorta unique and neurodiverse
Small things so sad that birds could land
Is lump fast asleep or rockin’ out with the band?

They’s lump, Them’s lump
Them’s in my head
They’s lump, Them’s lump, Thrum’s lump
Them might be dead

Lump was limp and lonely and needed a shove
Lump slipped on a kiss and tumbled into love
Them spent they twenties between the sheets
And life limped along at sub-sonic speeds

They’s lump, Them’s lump
Them’s in my head
They’s lump, Them’s lump, Thrum’s lump
Them might be dead

Is this lump outta my head?
I think so