His stomach grumbled. His lower intestine tied itself in knots, his colon mustered all its strength and bellowed for freedom. His neck muscles squeezed his spine with all their might, his shoulder muscles wrestled his shoulder blade. His finger joints ached with a prolonged sensation of dullness.
His body was in revolt, but he couldn't move. A small black video game controller had magically shackled his hands to a black wire carrying an electrical pulse that forced him to gaze passively, helplessly at moveable pixels, flashing bright colors and images bouncing around in an enlightened box, which was enshrined as the centerpiece of the room.
He squirmed and wriggled like a sleepy child trying to escape the unwelcome rays of morning sunshine; the volume was too loud but his hands were still shackled by the video game controller, and the remote control was far, far out of reach, on the coffee table where his criss-crossed ankles cut off the blood circulating in his sleepy toes. The video game controller's sleek, black body forced his thumbs into unusual stress positions. It was torture.
His glossy eyes crossed and his eyelashes morphed into rusty corrugated iron bars found on jail cells in rural Kentucky. Blinking was a felony. His skin died between his nose and cheek; it rotted, it festered, it constructed giant red pus-filled volcanoes that wore home-made signs protesting the video game controller, and the black wire, and the electrical pulses and the flickering pixels in the enlightened box. He farted again. His colon regretted its comfy position on a plushy cotton couch and craved the cold ceramic seat in the next room. The room with cool running tap water. The room with soap. The room with toothpaste. The room with shaving cream. The room with deodorant. The room without the box.
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