THE CHRONICLES OF MORGILE Chapter 1

THE CHRONICLES OF MORGILE
Chapter 1

MEANWHILE, IN COUCH, FLORIDA

Morgile was slightly disoriented from what he could only conclude was another bad dream. Again he was plagued by the witch that wanted all his stuff.

It was June 17th, so he was two days late for his annual shower. He used a rusty exacto blade to cut the seams off this clothes and peeled the soiled rags off. It smarted, like ripping bandages off infected finger wounds.

Moments later he was bathing in hot fluoride water.

He dried his wet, yellowish, partially decomposing body using the thick coat of a well known “stray” dog that he occasionally cared for. The dog cowered but had no choice, smothered as it was by Morgiles pasty wet mass.

Morgile forced a smile; today he would make it to the district of neglected couches so filthy and disgusting most coin hungry morgilers avoid it. People have died morgiling into those regions. Or worse, forcing their grubby fingers into old stale couch cushions would leave them infected with an STD. Or even worse than that, people have been pulled into cushions never to be seen again.

Fearlessly sniffing around among the piles of discarded and soiled furnishings in a used condom strewn dark alley with bums pissing everywhere, the Morgile found what he was looking for. A lint covered dime called to him from a dark and sweaty crevasse. Drooling, The Morgile seized it.

“If the scary witch from my bad dream wants my money,” he mumbled, “I’ll follow this highly sensitive nose as to where to morgile it from.”

He went for the double seamed stitching on the cushion with his teeth. This ensured that he wouldn’t be morgiling much longer today. Seconds later he was in, exploring the inner recesses of the couches nether parts.

Cha-Ching! A penny! A Nickel! A Quarter!

He found a tube of industrial strength glue in the clenched fist of a dead homeless man in a dumpster. He glued his festering wounds closed, and had himself a good morning huff while he counted his earnings.

"A dime! That makes twenty cents total," The Morgile said, counting the change in his grimy, snot-stained hands. Of course, it was fifty five cents, but The Morgile can't count beyond his number of fingers and toes combined which is 20,(unlike his six-toed sister-cousins who can count to 22)

That couch certainly made his earnings hard fought. And he was hopeful, as craftsmanship of this quality was rarely found on the vermin ridden, soiled and mouldy couches that seem to be so commonly found in Couch Florida.

Furthermore, he knew the smell of coins could linger on the older furniture. He'd sniff more out tomorrow. So he settled with his meagre finding. "Oh well, it's not much.. oh no.. it's getting dark," morgiling further into the couches interior, he found it very spacious, preparing dinner out of a dumpster, he decided to make himself at home for the night.

At this rate, it would be decades before paying the bad witch off....

TO BE CONTINUED