Pearls of Wisdom (R, Wednesday & Pugsley, bad hygiene, bodily secretions, bodily ejections, 1,013 words)
His chubby fingers smacked lightly against the pink indentations on her cheek from her mask still fading as he continued to worry about his fallen daughter.
“Aye, mijita, my little soiled Stormtrooper, wake up…wake up!”
Morticia tapped her crouching husband's shoulder with the hand holding the smelling salts as she glared down at Wednesday’s unconscious body. The vomit had been mostly wiped away from her slack lips, but her daughter still remained a sight to see, the front of her black sweater and large-legged floods streaked in the beigey-pink sludge that was her breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Gracias, mi amor,” Gomez said as he kept his eye on Wednesday for any sign of recovery. His fingers fumbled with the cap of the little silver vinaigrette before he palmed it and waved the tube under her nostrils.
She shot up like a lightswitch, grimacing from the spot on her head where it hit the tiles. Her eyes scrunched shut: she shook off the pain and disorientation, blinking her eyes up to her father's closer, relieved eye, then her mother’s towering judgemental one.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Morticia purred in her muted concern.
Wednesday's stare flickered to that of Pugsley's sunken-in, sickly gaze as he stood next to Morticia, his heavy-set build teetering his weight from heel to heel. As his eyes pried wide, so did hers, and it looked as though she meant to say something but couldn't.
☁️🐦⬛🕸️🪨☁️
“Puglsey. When was the last time you bathed? You smell like you’ve been soaking in Grandmama’s formaldehyde vats again.”
Pugsley shook his head and shrugged before sheepishly answering. “June?”
Her crossed arms tensed against her body, pushing her eyes to widen. “Of this year?” He took a breath to speak, but up went her hand. “Don't answer that. Just…get your revolting ass down to the Bay. I'll be there in a minute.”
The minute was spent digging her respirator mask out from her closet before she headed to the Bay, a concrete cavern that sat below the west wing, tucked into the sprawling hill upon which the Addams Mansion was perched. Its ceiling dripped in slow intervals, the dank moisture tapping against the tiny-tiled floor that sloped towards a grated drain.
Her voice was muffled by the mask, yet she remained unblinking as she gestured with the hose’s gun nozzle.
“Everything off. Now.”
He looked pained as he obeyed, his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink before he was even out of his favorite striped sweater. He got down to his boxers, and hedged.
They might’ve once been powder blue or grey, but the cotton fabric had turned a greenish beige, covered with a patchwork of discolorations with darker tide marks where the waistband met his skin.
Wednesday choked back a gag, channeling it into anger as she shot his blubbery stomach with a quick jet of water, his hands jerking up to fail at blocking it.
“Did I stutter? I said everything.”
His hands hesitated to move, but quickly peeled them down and off at the threat of the water nozzle directed at his eye. He swallowed, removing his hands from his privates, and stood at attention.
Wednesday had known that her brother had a large, uncircumcised penis, but not that large: there was something very off about it. Ashy, pale violet, and lumpy, it seemed to hang heavy by its own weight; it reminded her of a sack of marbles left to rot in the humidity of a swampy summer rain. Or a herniated elephant trunk, the skin stretched by whatever muscle had popped out of place.
Her lip curled in disgust, unseen through her mask, as she set the nozzle to a gentler wash setting and began to hose him down. She had moved to his side, even though the runoff seemed to be refusing to carry more than the greasy grime from his skin and crevices; he still smelled awful, so badly that her eyes began to water behind the mask shield.
She stepped back, intent on washing his junk from afar. She tossed him the bar of soap that had been waiting on the wall shelf at him. “Lather it.”
He did what he was told, his eyes off to the side in complete humiliation. She held out a little steel bucket for the soap and placed it back on the shelf, turning up the water pressure before aiming it at his soapy dick and balls.
He winced as the spray from the nozzle hit the girth. “Ah, it hurts!”
Wednesday turned up the pressure. “Maybe you should've thought about that before you —”
It started with one, but she hadn't seen it through the residual suds dripping from the tip of his foreskin. She kept spraying, however, to get the water to run clear; instead, it ran whitish again, but with a little round pellet squeezing its way out of his preputial orifice. She froze as the pungent, rotten cheese smell was amplified, her mask seemingly useless.
“What the — ” she stuck a finger into the hole of the filter cartridge, its P100 pad shockingly paper thin, as if it were replaced by an empty envelope; come to think of it, the organic vapor cartridge in the front was lighter than usual as well. “My mask — did you do something —”
A sudden burst of more tiny pale pellets rushed from Pugley’s prepuce and rattled across the tile towards the drain like a snapped strand of beads. The sound alone made her stomach lurch, but the putrid stench instantly intensified the nausea, despite her controlled breaths.
“I needed a snack. You know how much I like charcoal.”
With that, he passed a rather large one that dropped against the tile with a clack.
The last thing she remembered was feeling backsplash in her eye from the vomit splattering against her face shield as she attempted to take the mask off before it could happen.
☁️🪨🕸️🐦⬛☁️
As Pugsley chewed on his lower lip, Wednesday turned back to her father, whose hand was still clutching at her shoulder.
“Teach your son to wash his dick.”
