Something New To Talk About

Jack kept a smile plastered on his face through sheer force of will.

It was painful. Bobby was talking, Jack was pretending to listen - the moment was interminable.

Jack had to listen because Jack needed a job, and if you work you are around other people, and people talk. Endlessly, mindlessly, monotonously.

He wanted to kill them, every single one of them who wasted his time, who fucking bored him to death. Selfish pricks. At the very least he would be justified in cutting their fucking ears off because nobody  listens, except to the singular voice in their heads that is - unsurprisingly - full of shit.

He wanted to kill them but they in fact were killing him. Standing there day after day, quietly listening (he worked hard at not responding because that encouraged them), nodding his head, smiling, and praying for a nuclear attack. Jack was not really aware they were killing him, but he was aware of a growing physical discomfort with every additonal conversation. He thought it was psychological.

The pain felt like it was approaching critical mass as Bobby droned on.

And it was. Acid had built up in Jack's system, bile filled every available internal cavity, his organs were disintegrating, melting from the sheer causticness of his body's reaction to the mindless verbal assault he had to endure. It came upon him suddenly after decades of torture masked by iron willed self-control.

 Jack began to squirm. Bobby did not notice. Jack said "Call 911." Bobby said "What?" Jack screamed "Call 911."

But it was too late. His liquified organs gushed from every available orifice, especially his mouth and nose, which exploded internal poisons onto Bobby's face. The stench was suffocating.

Bobby finally shut the fuck up. And ran out of the room.

Jack collapsed to the floor. Dead. His body looked like a deflated balloon.

Bobby was excited. He had something new to talk about.