The call comes in just past noon. A woman, frantic, says she’s spotted a colony of tinies scurrying around her attic. Probably have been living up there for months, stealing crumbs, making little tunnels in the insulation. She wants them gone—immediately.
“Fast, effective removal,” you assure her over the phone, slipping on your jacket.
“No mess, no chemicals or poison.”
It’s a warm day, and you feel good, stomach still light from the morning. Your last job had been a modest infestation—three tinies in a crawlspace. They’d gone down easy, barely noticeable in your stomach. You could go for something bigger.
it was lunch time after all
The house is tidy, suburban, white shutters, flower beds neatly trimmed. The woman meets you at the door,
“I heard them moving all last night,” she says, ushering you in. “It’s disgusting.”
You nod, but you don’t share her disgust. Tinies aren’t much of a problem—not for you, anyway. You dont think they're gross.
In fact, you find them delicious.
You climb up to the attic, flashlight sweeping over boxes and dust-covered trunks.
you hear—the light, skittering sounds of tiny feet, racing around, trying to stay hidden. You don’t bother setting traps or luring them out. You’ve done this enough to know how to catch a tiny with your own hands.
“I know you’re in here,” you murmur. “Let’s not make this difficult.”
A rustle. One of them bolts—you see it, definitely a tiny- not a rat or anything else, maybe six inches tall. Its darting for a gap in the wood.
You lunge, faster, and scoop them up. They squirm in your palm. You don’t waste time. A quick toss, a parting scream, and then the tight, familiar sensation of something sliding down your throat.
You swallow, and feel the tiny land heavily in your stomach.
More movement in the attic.
Another darts for a box, and you catch them just as easily. One by one, they disappear down your gullet, bulging your throat for a moment before joining the others.
You pat your stomach as it begins to stretch, filled with wriggling, panicked tinies.
By the time you finish, you’re full—pleasantly so.
The attic is silent again, no more scurrying. Just you now, satisfied, stuffed, as you climb down.
The woman looks at your middle. She swallows. “You—uh. You got them all?”
You smile, wiping the corner of your mouth. “All taken care of.” you pat your full belly.
She pays you in cash. You head back to your truck, rubbing your belly as it gurgles over its new contents. Another job well done.
You pull out of the driveway, and head back towards the city, one hand on the wheel, one resting on your stuffed stomach.
You'd give yourself a break, you needed time to dispose of the pests properly. You never wanted to show up to a job already full.
You had another client scheduled in the evening. For now, you pulled into a roadside cafe
It's a favourite of yours, whenever you're in this area. A perfect place to hang around and digest.
You take a seat in the corner, shifting slightly to accommodate the fullness in your stomach. The tinies are settling now, movement staggering as digestion takes its course. You rest a hand over your gut, feeling the occasional twitch beneath your palm.
A waitress comes by, chewing gum, pen poised over her notepad. "What can I get ya?"
"Just coffee," you say. You don't need food.
In a few minutes, your drink arrives.
You sip your coffee, eyes half-lidded, and let yourself sink into the feeling. You do kinda like your job.
