AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello dear fans, casual readers and pervs looking for semi-nude photos of Ashley Garmany. On your computer screen sits a three-part series of semi-short, semi-fiction and hopefully all-the-way funny story called "The Worst Smell Ever." I wrote this in about 90 minutes—an eon in KC Time. I hope you enjoy the change from penis jokes to something else.
Part 3 of 3
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Maggots. Everywhere. Crawling from end to end. "Am I fucking hallucinating? Acid flashback? What the fuck could this be?" Apparently, a bug colony began on my prized-George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine. Now I suffered from trying to figure out what to do with the appalling appliance.
I pulled my t-shirt over my face, hoping the improvised gas mask would quell the fumes.
I picked up the grill and felt something hit me in the cheek. I remembered reading some gross science fact about Casu Marzu, Italian cheese with maggots. I did what these weirdo cheese lovers do and I covered my eyes, hoping the larvae wouldn't jump into my ocular cavities.
I opened the sink drawer and threw up again into a plastic Safeway sack. I grabbed another, double-bagged it, and tossed the Foreman into the bag, and into another two for good measure. I couldn't risk dripping a single speck of this on my carpet, floor or shoes; they would smell indefinitely.
I stumbled to the front door. I couldn't see, so I unlocked it blind—a skill I learned from many nights of drunken employment at a bar.
I bounced down the stairs, careful not to drop the biohazard. I shouldered the front door, tossing even more cookies onto the sidewalk, startling one of our Mexican gardeners so badly he pulled a knife out. I didn't worry about a stabbing, I worried about slowing down and being forced to smell this horror any longer than I needed to.
I ignored everything but the mission at hand. I carried the abomination to the dumpster and forcefully disposed of it. I howled, and not even I know if I screamed out of agony or joy.
I shuddered, then noticed I was still wearing a t-shirt as a gas mask and I was still barefoot as I stepped on some sharp pinecones and a shard of glass. Oh well.
I shuffled to the Mexican and asked for cigarettes. I took three and gave him enough for three packs. I lit them all hoping the smell in my apartment would be masked by tar. I also desired the taste of vomit and death out of my mouth.
I re-entered the crime scene. It looked like somebody searched the place for drugs or money. Chunks of stomach lining and red smears covered the floor, which was also littered with various pots all without lids. The place stunk of so many things, I couldn't begin to place them.
I smoked the three cigarettes and sprayed Febreze in the air. I put every pot and pan into the dishwasher, not giving a shit if their Teflon coatings would be ruined by a cycle. I bent over, pulled the bleach out of a drawer, and wiped down the offending cabinet until the varnish rubbed off.
That's when my roommate returned. "Um, I thought I told you no smoking in the place. My allergies kicked up. And why are you cleaning? I did that last week," he squeaked.
"Fuck. You," came out of my mouth. I'm a little upset I didn't barf as I spoke.
EPILOGUE
So, you're probably wondering what the hell was on the Foreman Grill, to cause this terribly factual scene.
A week-old hamburger. It turns out I cooked it while drunk but forgot about it. When my roommate decided to do a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, he neglected to check if anything remained on the appliance, which, I guess is an okay assumption since anybody who's seen me eat whilst intoxicated knows I'd never let a hamburger go forgotten. Well, I did.
Days later, the meat turned rancid. Flies magically appeared and laid their maggot eggs. Which is where the smell came from.
I've stuck my face in some awful things, but this is by far the worst smell ever.