Franz and Walter

Always on the outside. Observer's eyelids amputated, splayed vitruvian, mystified and vaguely amused.

You wake up and discover that your tongue has been replaced. A tubular beige worm with splayed red cilia encircling a small mouth at the tip darts from molar to soft palate, from bottom lip to salivary gland, exploring its new cage. You gasp and clap hands to lips, bouncing from bed and across hallway to your tidy bathroom. Hunched over the sink you shove fingers into your mouth and quickly snatch them back out with a cry, blood dripping from a small crater in your index fingertip, neatly excised by tiny razor teeth. The worm defends its home viciously. 

At breakfast you sit before a steaming bowl of oatmeal. A pinch of salt, a touch of maple syrup, some fresh blueberries and strawberries. Your stomach rumbles. The worm twitches in anticipation. In one fluid motion you scoop a spoonful towards your mouth, aiming for the back of your throat, trying to guide it past the worm and its swollen, eager appendages. The worm knows your tricks, it coils and writhes, slithers behind molars, caresses uvula, and slurps your oatmeal down its own gullet. Pulsing and rhythmic efforts of pre-digestion move a bulge along your cheek. A soft, wet pop as your swallowing reflex is engaged and you feel something slide down your esophagus.

You're still hungry.
You finish your oatmeal.
You wonder if the worm likes scotch.