I know things.

Indeed I do.

Can seal things, hidden things, things we dare only whisper about in the dark.

It is my job, my mission, my distinct pleasure to overturn the rocks of strangers' lives

and expose the pale, ugly, wriggling secrets underneath.

How do I know what I know?

You may ask, why it is my business to know, and it is your business not to know how I

know what I know.

So if I said to say that this story is undeniably, inextricably, unquestionably true.

In the parts I have made up.

So, Ruak Kappa dim the lights and, situated yourselves as comfortably as can be while I present

you.

The soared and somewhat icky case of Avery Tibbidz and his anal infestation.

Please, if you must vomit, be discreet so as to not disturb the others.

After watching his mother die from colorectal cancer, few things could frighten Avery Tibbidz

more than seeing blood in the toilet bowl.

Bugs, however, were one of those things.

Avery finished his business, wiped precisely three times using precisely four squares of

toilet paper each time and fastened his trousers.

He glanced in the bowl, as we all do, before flushing, and rather than tapered logs that

had been Sal's very stake in spinach salad the night before, what he saw was a wriggling

mass of insects, or at least a close approximation of the same.

...