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The night was cool and dreary as the bog slowly cooled over the powdery mansion. The only noise in the tattered remains of the once great monument was the old caretaker, Slosh Gorshkin, who had lived there for years, afraid to show himself in public. (Wouldn't you be if you had a name like Slosh Gorshkin?) Suddenly he heard a whimper outside. It was Susan Smith, the lovely typist that lived down the lane. He suddenly grew hungry. He had not seen a female in 12 years.

The next day no one was around the old mansion. Just police, relatives, and the reporters. Susan's husband had gotten worried when she hadn't shown up at home last night. And now he knew why. There was no sign of Slosh. No recognizable form of Susan. But there, lying on the floor, was a bloody hump of goo. And Susan's clothes were near it.

Slosh was happy now. He was in the Bahamas, and his appetite was quite satisfied. But no one came near him. Perhaps it was that reddish goo around his mouth.

 © 1983, 

T. G. Taft

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