Lormbtormb and Clagok
Lormbtormb and Clagok are in a pinch. Their compatriots are in a twist. Every worm surrounding them have wrapped themselves around another worm. Well, except for Turglort, whose wrapped itself around itself. A triple knot, what a blorging mess. They’re on a rugby pitch, naked and exposed to the scorching sun, near the lake, where the dirt is the way they like it, cool and dark, a nice temperature for ample slumber when they are too drunk on rot to wiggle. But they got here too late, took a wrong turn, they surfaced in the night. Now the sun has announced itself.
They woke up like this: the sounds of a hundred worms screaming, like vampires left out to melt. They’re each subject to a hangover of their own making, each too lethargic to twist their way back beneath the surface, each looking up, at the blurry shadows of the flyers overhead, circling in wait to snip the lot of them off the pitch.
The screaming has nothing to do with the predators above, or the hangovers from within, it’s the pitch they find themselves on, what a pinch, the sun exposure, the lack of strength to burrow, the daylight is what invokes the screams. They’re used to a sort of permanent darkness, where their rich colors are lit by minute hanging globes in whatever bar they happen to be in. There aren’t so much homes in their world as corners dug out of paths that T off near bars. When the bars are overrun and the paths are too many there is a crumble, and the worms have to dig themselves out of the mess. This requires some level of sobriety, which can take weeks to achieve, or a much deeper drunkenness. Rot is pretty much the entire constitution of a worm.
Clagok vaguely remembers now, because the rum is gone, that the rum ran out. Cham-Cham started screaming about the campsite, about the bottles they could swim in, the apple cores, the soured grapes. They’d run out of what felt like an endless supply and the idea of facing life amongst one another sober was - sobering. They wiggled after Cham-Cham, to the songs of Volk, the apreggiatic maestro. The beats thumped and the worms made way through the dirt to the dark surface in the blackest hour of night.
But now it’s daytime. The screaming has taken on a rhythm itself. Sort of an Ah Ah Ah Ah four on the floor thing is happening, while some lower Oooooooooooohs drone through the empty space. There’s music to it, enough to zone out to. Lormbtormb is thinking of its beloved barstool, about the mad orgy it was in as bodies started wriggling away to the surface. Lormbtormb's tail was in another worm’s mouth, while Lormbtormb sucked rot from a scab on this other worm whose name Lormbtormb couldn’t pronounce and promptly forgot. The two of them had taken its stool, and Lormbtormb knew a quick release would get it back. Until now, it was a pretty subdued night by most standards, none amongst them would have catalogued such average details.
The sun hides behind a large cloud mass. Now they can only focus on the circling flyers, they can make out the talons, open and ready to snatch them in silhouette against the clouds. This is it. This is definitely it. They'll be flyer food. That's how the story will end. Here on this pitch.
Then they hear the smack! This is followed by a booming voice from a biped above, a dense sound which they do not comprehend. And then they are soaked. And some of them wash clear off the pitch from the spill. The rest roll and tumble around, absorbing the wet with their bodies, furiously lap it up with their mouths.
Lormbtormb sees the carnage: Chorble has split in two from the big falling thing, which contained all the drink. Lormbtormb looks at Chorble and tastes the drink that surrounds and covers the worms. It’s rum! Half of them already know. Lormbtormb laps it up. The biped swoops up its cup, leaves the broken glass, and walks into the water. The flyers circle. The worms get drunk enough to escape the talons. They wiggle and spit. Half of them end up in an orgy on the pitch. Lormbtormb and Clagok don’t allow themselves to get caught in the sex octet. They scramble and tumble, and find themselves back in the underneath, and the sounds of space disco are thumping. The bar is open. They're so very thirsty.