Dirt. Home, shelter, and food. All is the same to a wee worm. All that is on the mind of a tiny pink wiggly worm. But as for a tiny pink wiggly worm hitch hiking in Idaho Falls, Idaho, potatoes are the only thing on its mind. Potatoes. Idaho potatoes. For that is why the wee worm was hitch hiking on that ruthless day. His only thoughts being potatoes.

While wiggling, searching for a potato field, trying to get where he was going, he saw a huge thick black beetle,”Hello there,” he said being as polite as possible, ready to ask for directions. The beetle ignored him,”Hey dammit I'm talkin' to you.” The worm being very impatient for a response said, cursing at the bug.

“Yeah and what of it? Why you talkin' to me anyway? I don't know you.” The beetle said with a huff and flew away.

“Aah to hell with you then. You asshole!” He shouted at the beetle.

The beetle stopped for a moment to ponder on these words, debating on what should be done. The beetle did not take kindly to being called such names and flew back towards the worm.

As he wiggled his way down the street, he spotted a car driving by and tried his hardest to slink away. The harder he tried the more tired he got. He got to the point he couldn't wiggle his tiny body any longer. Moments later the beetle was at his side, holding him down so that he may meet his bloody doom. The tiny little worm struggled for his life and was failing horribly. Moments later as the car neared them, the beetle flew away and got hit by its wind sheild and the worm became a mass of blood and wormy flesh smooshed against the ground.

That was the end of the little wormys life. . .

. . . . .



Several months later.

Kids walked down the long street of which the worm had once attempted to wiggle down. As they neared the dried flesh of worm, they noticed it didn't look right. They did the smart thing not wanting any diseases of what ever it was on the ground, they steered clear. But later that day, a little black kitty with a light case of mange, hungry and ready to eat what ever he could to fill his thin body.

More and more the dry thin worm grew until it was the same as before he had met father death. Now his flesh was pale with a greenish tint, and he hungered for something particularly odd. The cuts and gashes in his skin foamed as the kitty neared him, and he slinked his tiny body forward.

There was a noise in the distance that distracted the cat and he turned around. But that was in no way enough to distract the worm from his meal. He made his way to the cat and slithered up his hind leg, the slime that had gathered on the worm made this task to easy. He slinked and slither until he found a hole, and I don't think I need to tell you which hole that was. . .

Within the kitty he made his way through its intestines, slurping and gulping up chunks of flesh. He knew what he wanted, and he knew where it was. He could smell it, and it was so strong that he could taste it. He slithered more and more. Over lumps of intestine he made his way to the stomach.

Finally he found his destination. In the very pit of the stomach, he found what he wanted. In his head he thought, I shall eat it and then I shall move to my next victim. He wiggled his way to his food. He bit into it and aloud, he shouted with all his zombie wormy might, “POTATOES!!!!!!”