Uschi! by Tony Ungawa

Sure was a lot of it, too. He must now be hollow inside. Trash was already mixed in—he spotted a straw impaled lid from a small Coke caught in the coils of a loop of large intestine, a few crushed cigarette butts trapped here and there in the snotty slime that coated his liver, a crusty ketchup packet stuck to what he assumed was supposed to be his spleen.
    “Ain’t this the shits?” Li’l Bocephus told the world and himself. He next bent forward and put his hands to work in trying to shovel himself back inside. It was like wrestling with dead eels in taffy—the shit was delighted to go everywhere but where it was supposed to go. But he managed some progress: the bowels were returned home, maybe not back in their original position inside him, but beggars can’t be choosers, they were back in there and that was good enough for the time being.
    Again Denny Gleeth went against his typical nature and was compelled to become courageous.
    No one manhandles my lady like that and goes unpunished.
    The Maverick’s car antenna snapped off in Denny’s hand shockingly easy. There was a tacky little plastic Dallas Cowboys football helmet mounted on the end of it. Denny got rid of that. The antenna screamed like an upset white woman when he sliced at the air with it. Denny reached the ways across the hood and whipped it into Li’l Bocephus’s face, the balled tip striking the left eye. Pop! The eyeball exploded like a pinpricked balloon and sent eye jelly gunk the color of fresh pus from a lanced boil oozing down half of his face. The eyelid collapsed and puckered like a cat’s sphincter.
    “MOTHER and FUCKER!”
    Forgetting all else, Li’l Bocephus was quick to retreat to the center of the parking lot, entrails pouring back out of him like groceries from a shopping sack tearing open along the bottom and dragging across the ground, leaving a bright red trail in his wake. His snakeskin boots became wrapped up in them, tangling his legs, and he tripped and fell hard to his knees and elbows.
    “Shitfire … I so do not deserve this.”
    Meanwhile, back in the Dairy Queen, Uschi was stirring. She lifted herself off the Formica and lowered her feet to the floor. The pair of ruined steak finger baskets all down the front of her looked like a good quantity of chunky vomit and the mashed french fry dangling from the end of her nose a king-size booger. The bell ringing collision with the cash register had torn open her face along the temple, and a flap of spoiled green flesh shaped roughly like how Florida looks on a map now hung low over her eye, a patch of yellowy-white skull out there for all to look upon.
    People just silently stared at Uschi, unsure exactly what to do about her.
    Her mouth was still full of Li’l Bocephus, cheeks puffed out, a large, partially jellied chunk of intestine protruding past her lips. She watched the people watch her chew and finally swallow it all down. The belch she cut loose with was like a foghorn, only juicier and carrying a chemical toilet odor stout enough to water the eyes and put a bitter taste on the tongue.
    Uschi raised her hands and spoke to the crowd in a reassuring tone, “Citizens, there is no need for alarm. I am made from Satan reanimated dead body parts. My shit is together in ways y’all can’t even begin to understand. Now excuse me, there is more violence I need to be committing outside.”
    The crowd of Dairy Queen people couldn’t part fast enough for Uschi when she started walking toward the nearest exit, everyone’s footsteps crunchy under all the broken glass. The door’s hydraulic arm hissed as it shut behind her. She calmly walked the parking lot and approached a Nissan and tore one of its door’s clear off, its steel hinges groaning in useless protest and snapping apart like they were made of peanut brittle.
    Li’l Bocephus stood up and turned himself in the direction of Denny. The look to his face was all bad attitude. There was a retarded boy he needed to