Okay. As a birthday gift from myself to all of you, I have an unfinished piece of original work I'd like to share. I got too lazy to keep going, and I doubt I will later. So, here you go.


DISMANTLING

First, he gripped either side of his head, palms braced against his temples, and tugged, alternately turning it left and right. The tears on either side of his mouth were small, hardly noticeable at first, but with his continued motions, they widened turning his face into a caricature smile. The sound was loud, abrasive, the same noise a bandage made when torn off skin. His teeth, shining and wet, were now visible from the sides of his cheshire cat grin. With a click and a sharp twist, his skull dislodged itself from his hanging jaw. Nerves ripped, muscle unraveled. Then, securing one hand beneath his upper teeth, he disconnected his backbone from his now hanging skull, a skillful one-hand unclasping that would make bra-frustrated college boys green with envy.

His brain had never been very well-attached to his skull. Only the roof of his mouth kept it inside the upper half of his head, which he was now setting down on a tall shelf gently, scalp side down. His own eyes watched him with scorn, rolling in their sockets - Oh gosh,this again. - but he continued diligently. The eyes had to admit, the way the exposed tongue glistened in the light was almost pretty. But that was short-lived; his massive hand had wrapped around the said tongue and was now pulling it out, wrapping it around his fist to prevent tangling. That tended to happen often and the eyes were relieved that he had finally decided to take its advice.

He laid the coil of tongue on the shelf beside the head, where it joined the eyes as a spectator. The tongue personally found the coiling unpleasant, but it had to admit that being tangled was much more uncomfortable. Both the eyes and the tongue were exasperated with how he next removed his jaw. It was one of the more breakable parts of him, but he treated it rather irreverently, jerking it upwards where it should have been gently prised out. The skin and flesh wrapped around it were worthy cushions, but they were not invincible. He was not so young as he once was, after all. But he was set in his ways and ignored their disapproval as he set the jaw beside them, where it complained of its rough treatment.

The neck was next to go. This time, the shelf's occupants had no complaints as it was twisted off, though the skin that hung from it was a little longer than it should have been. They decided to cut him a little slack, however, and remained silent as the neck was placed on the shelf below. This was where it got tricky and he would need the utmost concentration.

Digging his fingers beneath the upraised, frayed skin on his chest, he peeled it down. It detached in a long strip, baring his pliable muscle. He used his nails to unstick it from his ribcage - this was the part he hated the most, as flesh inevitably remained in his nailbeds for days after. The meat came off after a few tries though, and he was able to remove his abdominals without much trouble. He allowed them to rest on the middle shelf, as they had requested. It got a little messy after that. Some of the organs occupying the bottom half of his torso - specifically, the liver, the small intestines, large intestines, kidneys, bladder and stomach - fell out onto the floor with a wet slap and a small shriek from each. The liver was already bruised and it was perhaps the least pleased. Shrugging in apology, he secured the liver on the middle shelf first, then his stomach (which was deflated and pitiful) and kidneys and bladder (which were stony and soggy). They were not in much better condition than the liver, but they were much better sports. He gave the small intestines and large intestines the same treatment as the tongue, but they took much longer and much more of his arm. They did not particularly care about being wound in such a manner, as they were used to contorting themselves into weird, space-saving positions. Those went on the shelf as well.

His lungs were too ill to be moved. Black and porous, they glared as his hand reached beneath the ribcage and refused to be coerced, despite his persuasive gestures. The heart was fine though, despite feeling a bit under the weather that day. It had been a long time since it last spoke to the brain, as it had been very busy as of late.