Internet Night in Worm City

When they broke him open (and his skin took a bit of sawing like year-old birthday cake icing and the fat underneath had been receding a dozen meters every year but the muscles were still in fighting form and lashed out when exposed, taking Amanda in the left eye so that she had to sit this one out as eager as she was), they found that he had never really died, merely gentrified his insides. All the boarded up organs had a new paint job and worms with beards and short pants were squishing about, sipping filtered turd cocktails lovingly crafted by an earwig with an exotic accent.

The Professor stared in awe at the students’ find. He would be rich as soon as he could get the worms to grow mouths and start forming opinions.

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