Rita, End of the line
2nd Stop


Written by Septia.


In the air hung a chatter of critters; of bugs and beetles, squirrels, forest crabs, and birds. It gave the sense of a mutter and mumble of crowds, which mimicked the hustle and bustle of its surroundings: when nature was caged by cities, it begun in its own way to mimic its captor's characteristics. 
	-Ghhrbrlglpgghhsg- Just as how Rita's captures were all the less sounding like a hoard of people in the embrace of her acid sauna of a stomach pit. Gurgles of porridge poured through leaves and mopped with a rubber rake vibrated out of Rita's abdomen -Kkrggllgrrsh-, condensed to the point where it merely jutted out half a meter ahead of her. The squirms and rustling of Bodinborg Park attendees having adapted to the sounds of digestion, mimicking in their molten slop that lugged back and forth like a pendulum sagging out of Rita's partially opened overcoat… Rita payed it no mind, walking along the boot-print paved path through the artificially housed forest. She towed her stomach in front, a plow for the branches and shrubbery framing the path in its desire to encroach upon it once more. When the path veered off Rita didn't bat an eye, walking straight ahead into the tall grass and shoots, the soles of her feet bending over branches and rough, cragged terrain marking the forest's undergrowth, of trees left to expand at their own devices in an area less than suitable in size to hold them all. 
	“Mmr…” she unleashed a lips clasped exhale as she strode on. 


Rita sauntered up from a valley in the terrain, back onto a the trail of walked paths, scraping the bottom of her soles against the edge of a rock mid step, scratching out shards of green glass and alcohol glued cigarette butts. She didn't get them all, but she had already left the scraping rocks in her wake. 
	Ahead was an archway of trees; sprigs planted long ago and left to grow into a natural canopy in a bow over the path. She stepped in… Her stomach, rallying from the front, got caught in the arch -Fthwhnnngg-. The sides compressed together over the branches, compressing to snag on the meter wide abdomen, squeezed up into the grip of the tree, smooth bark clinging to her skin. Rita's steps resumed, walking to where her stomach compressing to match the wooden pathway where most adults would have instinctively ducked. -Shgtbbfhghs- Her gut mushed together, compacting it with grumbles warping through her stomach, wailing down towards her rear. -Ppfhrhht- a flutter of smog whipped the back of Rita's overcoat, letting it flutter to the winds of marinated jerky and bottled seawater. Partway through the promenade, the fanning fumes furthered, forging a foundation. A crackle of grease smeared axles reverberated through Rita's hind, as the her pucker warped to a trembling gape over the staggering sludge sprawling her sphincter wide, hind stretching in oscillating warps, wider, wider, as the bulk of manure forged through her, and begun to mosey out of the stretched brim in one, solid, log of malleable cheek clay. It creaked like the or of a submarine submerged in a swamp as the mulch wound through her pit, curved straight down in its weight as soon as it began to parse over the edge of her precipice, and drooling down, just barely missing to scrape by the back of her oversized overcoat, leaving the midnight fabric clear as the steaming behemoth sloughed its way to the ground. -Cllptthns- It hit the ground, slamming into the loose dirt and engulfing the surrounding twigs and bark in a meteoric stump of dense sludge, the fudge brewed from a queue of patrons congested and baked into one coffee brown bale of dung, long last getting their turn to be processed and given their turn to leave the waiting-room of Rita's bloated gullet. 
	The muck clobbered into the ground, drawn along as Rita kept walking, letting the tail of dung draw out of her rear chute and collapse on the ground in a line of melon-high muck, its doughy extent smothering the path under the planted archway, sinking a touch as it landed with vents of hissing fumes whispering out through the crackling fissures on the mound. The surrounding air slathered in the briny, compost tinge imprinted with Rita's marinated bowel musk – wisps of roasted hazel baked in salt crystallized from sewer linings – as Rita laid down her own pipe along the path. Her stomach gradually compressing, as it channelled the loaf of fudge through her rear, -Clslpthtchrt- creaks and smears of the mire stirred from femurs and rib chunks logged within, tickling Rita's pucker as it wallowed over the bale of bowel-slime polished putty, smearing along the braided lumps and dipping into the fractures separating segments in the filth. 
	As Rita walked the whole bale elongated: a bowel sake excavated froth the depths of her biology and laid to waste, crawling in the archway. -The mire clumped and daubed into the ground with a putter and clatter of blowing bubbles through a milkshake gone sour -Chhrlpgthht- -Cjjgllpthss-, steaming with concentrated heat wafting up in columns from under clutches of clamped skeletal tissue or motley straps of fried clothing, sleeves of shirts, pants, and partially dissolved shorts drooping down the side of the mound like wilting petals unfurling from a corpse flower. 
	“Mgms…” Rita mumbled as she neared the end of the archway. The mound behind her clutched, and pinned shut by her pucker, digging through the mound and tugging back to separate the mulch, dropping it with a shudder to the ground below -Bwbhttatamap-. She scratched her thigh as she left the archway, stomach shuffled back to a manageable size, and a haphazard majority of the path drenched in sludge. She kept up her pace, as she walked over paths and through brushwood, occasionally another chain of muck would vacate her hind, drooping in a billowing bale of bowel pudding to thud into the soil. Letting the mounds pile and trawl out, hanging tails of muck drooping into lines of bone riddled filth. Left in her wake, marking her path. Her stomach steadily deflating back into the holds of her coat, the deep umber retreating, slimmed with a faint blubber congealing into her frame. Without wavering her vision from the path ahead, Rita reached down and buttoned up her overcoat, now that it was no longer obstructed by her gut. The buttons sat loose, formed in divots only a hair tauter than the buttons themselves. She could not remember a time when the button holes had been a tight fit, they must have been, sometime in the past. Surely. Though it all wears down with age. As long as the buttons did their job, as long as her stomach converted its enraptured morsels into energy and various fats and nourishments, there was no remark. -Ththgbgsh- A clump of muck fell at her rear, smacked in a goopy glob of gutter gelato, a soggy, spongy head sprawling and sagging into a patch of mulch. Within the load laid the bare visage of a skull peeking through the bile, and a selection of bones, putting a period to her unloaded ballast – her dump stretching throught eh path as a muddy exclamation point. 
	Rita returned to follow the whims of the forest path, in search of her foal, back to the roar of a concrete jungle.