Phil burped. Lunch, breakfast, snack bars, pop and yesterday's late night king prawn curry all swilled round together in a throatquake of palate-shredding magnitude. He lifted his mobile phone from under the pile of empty pizza boxes and polystyrene cups littering the dashboard and pressed a squat thumb to a random selection of buttons. Still dead.
Squeezing a fart from his numb backside, he rocked forward onto the steering wheel and fumbled around for the hole in his bomber jacket pocket. Lost in the limbo of the lining, fluff and coins and dobbers and combs and biros and matches and fags took time out from the interface between his larval desires and the rest of the world. A foreign pack of cigarettes been marooned inside for a while, gradually whittled away by his cacked-up lungs when he'd gasped himself out of his regular brand, and as he dragged it kicking and screaming into the van's oil-stained interior, the scuffed filter tip of the one remaining D'Artagnan Lite poked from the cardboard like a rat's tail leaving the sinking ship of all hope in its wake.
He relaxed back into his seat, with another fart, this one more of a seat-shudderer. Good. If he could unload a few gutquakes, he might avoid the imminent throatquake.
Phil fumbled the scabby cigarette out of the packet while elevating one once-peach-like butt cheek to fire out a thunderous fart that shook the car beneath him. Better and better. He scrambled a match out of the bunnyfluff in his pocket. Solace beckoned. First, just one more. Lift, and release. He elevated the other butt cheek and the car shuddered like a nymphomaniac just freed from a chastity belt on her wedding night.
Then he struck the match on the dashboard.
Some time later, police followed the trail of wrappers, pizza boxes, polystyrene cups and shreds of car to find Phil's corpse floating in a nearby lake. Butt-less.
Opening: Whirl.....Continuation: McKoala