Edgar didn’t feel well. He had the Grumblies in his tumbly. He wasn't quite sure how they got there. It was probably the spiked eggnog from the office Christmas party. It felt thick and tasty warm going down and he laughed and even danced when Cool and the Gang’s “Celebrate” played over the raspy company speakers. But now those annoying Grumblies were swimming around making him quite unhappy. For the past forty-five minutes he had been hoping that it was all his imagination until he belched and heard a tiny voice singing, “Zanabootha, Mi Ma!”
He didn’t speak Grumbly and didn’t know what the hell, “Zanabootha, Mi Ma!” meant but it sounded vaguely reminiscent of “Celebrate good times, Come on!”
He stumbled to the bathroom of his studio apartment and opened the cabinet. An old band-aid, half finished expired bottle of Amoxicillan, and a can of Edge Super Sensitive Gel were the only occupants of the dilapidated cabinet. He knew this but had been hoping perhaps a solitary “Grumb-B-Gone” packet might have been lying somewhere unnoticed. No such luck. This, was bad news. If those Grumblies went unchecked and made their way deeper into his intestines...well, he couldn’t even think of that. He had gone to the hospital once for a Grumbl-enema. Never again. Not to mention the Gallstones they had left behind.
Edgar sighed. He leaned over the toilet and stuck his finger down his throat. It felt slick and slimy warm. He gagged but did not vomit. He opened his mouth wider and pushed his plump finger even further down. He felt his gorge begin to rise when an intense and severe prick was felt on his plump pink fingertip. He withdrew his hand from his mouth tasting the sharp coppery flavor of blood. Firmly implanted into the end of his right index finger was a tiny metal sliver. With a wince he withdrew what he discovered to be a sword measuring approximately two millimeters. Although small, it was quite large enough to cause a not insignificant amount of pain. As he sucked on the sore finger he thought he heard a roar of jubilation from deep inside his gut.
“Damn Grumblies,” he muttered.
Edgar decided to find something else to stick down his throat. He surveyed the small bathroom and decided upon his toothbrush. It was really a rather sad looking toothbrush. The brushes were bent and curled. He had needed a new brush for some time now but always managed to forget until the next time he brushed his teeth. He grabbed the toothbrush firmly and poked it down his throat (rear end first of course) and painfully scraped the tender back of his throat but did manage to gag. Oh, did he gag. His stomach heaved and he barely had time to remove the toothbrush when a small green Grumbly came tumbling out of his mouth and fell with a splat on the dingy floor. It looked up angrily, its tiny eyes sparking. It squeaked out something at Edgar but he paid it no heed. Instead he brought one of his hard-heeled wingtips (the left one to be exact) rapidly down on the Grumbly with a satisfying crunch. The bottom of his shoe was sticky slick with white creamy eggnog and Grumbly guts. “One down,” Edgar grunted with a smirk. Unfortunately, Grumblies tend to grow in packs of eight to twelve. It looked to be a slow and very uncomfortable process. With a shrug and a resigned sigh he leaned over the toilet and shoved the toothbrush once again far back into his throat. But just as he began to gag he felt the toothbrush wrestled from his fingers. He tried to regain control but when he reached down grasping at the toothbrush he felt a jolt of pain from the injured fingertip causing him to release it. It was jerked deeply down his esophagus. Edgar lurched up coughing and choking on the woefully old Oral-B. His face turned a bright fiery red when the slick heel of his wingtips caused him to slip on the hard tiled flooring of the bathroom. He fell fast, his head hitting the side of the bathtub with a sickening “Kathunk” that sounded like someone hitting a home run with a grapefruit.
He was found two days later by a concerned co-worker. The Grumblies having long since left, most likely escaping down the bathtub drain. They had taken the body of the squashed Grumbly and the small sword with them. The coroner was left to conclude that Edgar had gotten sick after drinking too much at the office party and had slipped in his own vomit while brushing his teeth, hitting his head on the edge of the tub.
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