Editor's note: This one gets a little rough, folks.
Alternately you could swallow hot coals after calling my work number. When I pick up I'll revel in the sound of you choking on the embers as they stick to the side of your throat. I will laugh uproariously at the whistling sound produced when they burn through the wall of your trachea and your oxygen-starved lungs suck in air through hundreds of pinholes – air that becomes superheated by this negative-pressure bellows action. I will giggle with glee at the crackling sound of your alveoli being seared into crispy lung-nuggets (for a moment I'll think about coating them in chocolate so that I'd have a snack to bring to the movie theater).
The sound of your final gasp and rattle will likely cause me to unleash yet another yard-long man-serpent onto the underside of my work surface. I will calmly reach for the staple gun which is kept holstered at arm's reach, and then I will secure the writhing beast in place, its bifurcated tail lashing back and forth, caustic venom sizzling on my mailed fist. Finally I will reach for the serrated wooden plug – the one with the lead handle gouged with crude runes filled with feces – and I will ram it home into my urethra, once again sealing that battered tunnel before it can vomit forth further abominations into this fragile plane.
--Steve Kilian
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