Your childhood bully assaults you with a 'nipple twist'. You are now the ripe age of twenty five and a quarter. He does not care. It is jocular, it is ‘in good spirit’, it is ‘an inevitability’.
Little does he know that today it is you who will twist. His sticky fingers grope for your once-tender areolae. But this time is different. Where are the dust-like hairs? Where is the ring of pimples? What has become of your rubbery man-nodule?
The fool is hooked. You snatch upon him with pinkish, dividing tendrils; a fractal pattern of bifurcating nipple-growths assaults his fingers. They twist. And twist.
Your areola-flesh twirls en masse like a school of fish, thoroughly exploring his unwashed hands, and contorting the bones in a myriad directions at once. There is no singular crack; instead a prolonged sizzle is heard, as of burning meat, and the nipple-drill fractures, microfractures and liquefies your bully’s appendage.
“Good one bro. You really got me this time,” he says. He resumes his thuggish walk, trailing behind those guilty fingers; now they are ground down into loose skin casing, leaking bone-powder upon the pavement.
- Esssie Nihil, likely in 2019