Oh Christ. Why me?

​

I race through the crowd, stumble by paintings, skip around dinosaurs, and almost fall into whatever crap they decided to protect behind velvet ropes.

​

I dart past an open sarcophagus—maybe the wrappings could be used as toilet roll. No time to stop. It’s just a replica anyway.

​

I clutch my midsection.

​

Pain.

​

My eyes meet an old lady’s just as it slips out—warm, wet, bubbling as though alive—straight down my leg. She recoils, backing into the wall as she frantically makes the sign of the cross.

 

I trudge past like a penguin, legs splayed, head lowered, trying not to let my jeans brush my skin. Of course they do, and the liquid is already turning cold.

 

A trail follows me. A kid gags.

 

Docents rush in, hiding noses under lapels. They cordon off the area.

Someone shouts, disdain and disgust barely hidden in the wry tone: “Those velvet ropes won’t keep the smell in.” 

​

I swallow and waddle on.

 

The gift shop better sell shorts.