The Tragic Death of Mr. Pickles. (standard:humor, 1512 words)
Author: Jack Henry	Added: Sep 23 2002	Views/Reads: 3951/2386	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After reading this story, you may think twice about ordering a couple extra pickles on your double hamburger w/cheese or associate with anyone with a "pickel eating disorder" for that matter. . .hope you enjoy.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

I then turned around with Bob and we watched the two head for the
condiments stand. 

“Hey Dan.” Bob said to me quietly. 

I turned to him.  “What?” 

“You know why they call him Mr. Pickles?” he then pointed to Mr. Pickles
and smiled. 

“Why?” I asked, not knowing what the hell his name meant. 

“Just watch.”  Apparently, Bob knew what Jim was up to.  Jim and Bob
knew Mr. Pickles longer than I have; I'm only new in this school, they 
were long time residents. 

Jim and Mr. Pickles stood over the pickle portion, and Jim grabbed for a
nearby plate.  He then handed it to Mr. Pickles and stood back a couple 
of steps.  Mr. Pickles, from what I could see, was overjoyed as he 
began to use his hands to shovel the pickles onto his plate.  He piled 
the pickles on until his plate couldn't fit anymore.  Then he walked 
away from the stand, entranced by his pickles. 

He held his plate out before him as he walked; hypnotized by the shiny
light that shone off of the green blob on his plate.  He then 
approached the table and proceeded to carefully sit down.  Jim joined 
us then as Mr. Pickles set his plate on the table with extreme care.  
Not one pickle could be spared, it seemed. 

And then he did the most horrid thing I had ever seen. 

He dug his hand into the slimy blob of pickles and scooped a whole bunch
of them into his mouth.  His mouth moved up and down; a squishy noise 
could be heard from within the dark cave that was his mouth; and I 
could hear the rumbling in the bottomless abyss that was his stomach as 
the pickles entered his digestive system. 

I felt like throwing up.  Not only was he eating all of these pickles,
but he was crazy about it.  He mashed his hand to his face, grumbling 
as he forced more and more in.  The pickles that didn't make it into 
his mouth ended up on his fat cheek, sliding down and leaving a green 
slug trail. 

I looked to Jim and Bob only to find them both on the verge of giggling.
 Never before had I ever seen such a thing as this, and I was truly 
disgusted, but they were both having a laugh at it. 

Then he did it again. . .and again. . .and again. . .until finally, they
were all gone. 

Mr. Pickles then slapped his belly and smiled.  Then he burped.  And
then he got sick. 

We could all hear the rumble in his gut, like the roar of a beast deep
in a large cave.  It sent shivers down my spine and I knew what it 
meant. 

“Oh no.” I said.  I looked back to Jim and Bob, who had both stopped
laughing, and noticed that they had come to the same realization.  He 
was going to blow.  Images of some Monty Python movie flashed through 
my head, and I knew that that was going to be the last thing that would 
ever cross my mind before the big explosion.  But thankfully it didn't 
come, not yet. 

Mr. Pickles grabbed his belly in pain and lurched forward, grunting as
he smashed his forehead on the table, drawing blood and creating a huge 
crater on the face of the table.  He then heaved himself up and made a 
dash for the door.  He had to use the potty. 

Mr. Pickles flew through the lunchroom, knocking over a few chairs and
trash cans as he did.  People jumped out of his way and hid under 
tables.  Mr. Pickles then slipped in something on the floor and flew 
forward face first into the ground.  His nose was broken and blood 
gushed down his face in streams of crimson.  He then got back up, 
determined to make it to the door. 

And he finally did.  He fell to his knees, farting as he did so, and
looked up to the doorman.  Mr. Pickles then asked: “Can I go to the 
bathroom?” 

“NO!” he said, looking down at him.  He uncrossed his arms and pointed
to a sign above the door, which read: “No one is allowed to leave the 
lunchroom, unless he or she has a pass!” 

“Do you have a pass, son?” he asked. 

Mr. Pickles looked up in disbelief and suddenly knew that his time had
come. 

“Oh shit.” He muttered as his bowels exploded, bursting through his
pants.  His ass literally blew out as he fell forward at the doorman's 
feet.  We all stood around and watched as he slowly died in a pool of 
his own excrement.  And suddenly, regret washed over me and I cried.  I 
cried for Mr. Pickles because it was me who had wanted him gone. 

“If only I hadn't thought you were a disgusting piece of crap, oh woe!”
I shrieked as I fell down and cried over Mr. Pickles. 

Then he spoke his last words: “Those. . .were. . .really . . good. .
.pickles. . .” 

And then he died. 

The End. 


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