The Salty Hammock

Squeezing my fermented crabapple carcass back under the door sweep left a sticky cider smear across the linoleum. The kitchen was pitch-black except for the stove clock, but my night vision locked straight onto a petrified tortilla chip curled under the breakfast stool like a greasy hammock. Naturally, I claimed it as my five-star mattress. I backed up and slammed my sticky red rear dead center into the salty trough. The stale chip exploded with a gunshot crunch, snapping inward like a crunchy bear trap. Now I am vacuum-sealed waist-deep between two sharp corn walls, coated in yellow dust and rocking sideways like a demented burrito. Pure luxury.