The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

105
life.’
‘You can’t be serious !’
‘If only you shared Mr Boyle’s concern for
your own welfare. I see by your chart you have gained
sixteen pounds since your last sojourn here.’
Even through the gnawing in his derriere
Boyle couldn’t help but admire Flynn’s slick reversal
of blame. Bob on the other hand was less bowled over,
visibly so. Speechless with rage, his complexion a
diseased scarlet, lips flapping like gills transposed on
his cantaloupe of a head. His very skull seemed to be
swelling with indignation; any moment now, thought
Boyle, it will burst open like a giant piñata, showering
us all in a storm of Oreos and Snickers, cooking oil
and pork rinds.
Bob waggled a ham sized fist at Flynn, wheezing
like he was deflating, then dropped to the floor,
sending out a shock wave that toppled the photo of
Mrs Flynn and her pet Pug (or was it just a hairy
baby? Boyle could never bring himself to look at it
long enough to draw a conclusion) from the desk.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ yelled Flynn, turning
the sleep deprived gravel pits of his eyes onto Boyle.
‘Do something!’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the one trained in First
Aid.’
‘If you think I’m putting my mouth anywhere
near his…’ began Boyle, remembering Bob’s sewer
breath, then faltering when he realised what was currently
smeared around his own lips. ‘Besides, you
were about to fire me. You kiss him.’