Cosmic Vomit
by Don Cheney
A multi-media project by Max Cheney
Chapter 19 read by Wendy
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Give or take a week, a week passed and everything vaulted back to normal.


Michelle began a singing career, Chester became the first multi-millionaire cat, and me, well, at least it was summer and I could sleep outside and not freeze to death.


I had tried to strangle the life out of Gordi, but at a tremendous cost to my self. Turns out itís bastard difficult to choke someone when youíre in their body. In fact, itís impossible. But the upside was that I made a great dog.


Every single participant in the Curse-Off was recuperating from some kind of brain injury - mine being the most severe. No one was to blame, except Mr. Emerson Fittipaldi, and, on top of that, he was also to blame for all the crap we had to eat in the school cafeteria. Though now even that slop was too rich for my doggy intestines.


Well, at least I didnít have to study anymore. I didnít have to do a goddamn thing and a goddamn thing included reading Enigmatic Scientist and talking to Mom, Dad and Michelle. My three stooges.


-I got a question for ya, Al -Dad announced as he flipped through a copy of Enigmatic Scientist-. ŅWhat type of hat did Galileo wear?


-I bet he doesnít know. Heís a freaky little dog now.


As I tried to think, Michelle took my robe off.



-ŅWhat do you think Iím going to say? -I axed, looking all around.


-Something stupid or some non-sequitur. Or... or... something brilliant -Mom said.


-Ask him again if he thinks that the Rock of Gibraltar is Fresca and Vodka -Michelle suggested-. And then ax me if I want to tear apart his entire molecular construction to see if he has fleas.


I didnít know what the freaking hell she was talking about.


-°Get the fuck away from me! -I gritted-. °Just step the fuck off! I donít have any toxins and probably no parasites.


-Alís probably right -Mom said, looking disappointed.


-I donít think we should talk to lower life forms -Michelle asserted.


After that, they all argued, and Michelle ran out like a jackass out of a sour grape.


ŅWhat? ŅI canít talk to Michelle the rest of my life? This dog stuff ainít half bad.

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