27½ Minutes Past Seven

Thinking it might help him sleep dreamlessly, the man in the hat tried a stool-softener. He took it by-rectum, fingering the suppository deep into the trap of his ass until he felt the hard end of his colon. He pushed until the rocket-end of the suppository stopped up against the tip of his pubic-bone. He sat still for a moment, not wanting to loosen the suppository, then wrapped himself in a wooly blanket and curled up on the divan, his hat pulled down over his brow. He felt a knocking in his stomach, just below his small intestine, a gurgling sound emanating from the portal of his ass. He waited until 27½ minutes past seven, his stomach aching, stitched with pain, and shit out the stool-softener, a beard of shit splashing up against the insides of the toilet-bowl. That night he slept like a suckling child swaddled in the cribbing of his sheets.