After releasing a gushing torrent of rancid excrement into my grandfather’s entire house I was persona non grata at home. It had all been an accident, and happened so fast that my only option was to escape and to lay low. Real low.

Presently, I was laying in a drainage ditch beside a minor road. I was still caked in yesterday’s business, which had baked in the october sun and was now flaking off my body as dust. Inhalation was unavoidable, and with no money or food, it would soon become necessary.

I had gone without food for around seven hours, so my stomach would by all rights be completely empty. Not so. I felt a tightening in my loins, my sphincter muscle strained with the weight of another huge load.

I had an idea – Earlier I had seen a homeless man making good money by owning a dog. If I was going to eat tonight then I would have to come up with some magic of my own.

As I fled from police and angry townsfoIk I knew I had perhaps crossed the thin line between art and atrocity. At the very least the looks on people’s faces seemed to say so.

It was not so much the freshly laid turd glistening at my feet, but the full body covering that I had administered yesterday. The sight of a nude man coated with poo casually strolling the high street, defecating as he went, was inexplicably unacceptable to these people. These perverts.

I made for the drainage ditch again and, unseen, submerged myself in the swamp. I would wait there for a lifetime before it was safe. Hours later I emerged, a wanted criminal, and all I had done was the most natural thing of all

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