Mamma and the owl

Fat Mamma sat on the chair. His purple one-piece bulged like the shopping bags he'd dumped on the living room table two weeks ago.

Maggots had claimed the shopping. Fat Mamma's body spilled through the gaps under the armrests on the chair.

"I'll build you a villa," he told the owl.

Fat Mamma picked his nose with a yellow finger. He continued, "It shall be made from ivory, phillips and bracken."

The owl blinked. It seemed superior. It was a trim owl, strangely thin for a naturally portly bird. It frowned down from the top of the grandfather clock.

The owl gave its pipe a dry suck that sent a musical wheeze into the air. It looked at the maggots and then at Fat Mamma.

"That, Terence, was a dramatic pause. Not everyone gets that."

"Nobody calls me Terence," said Fat Mamma. He fought back a coughing fit. "You're cut off from the inheritance."

Fat Mamma scooped a handful of maggots and slapped them into his dribbling mouth. It was the last thing he did. The owl carefully put down its pipe, lifted its wings above its head and swooped towards the maggots. At the last moment, it switched direction and landed its claws into Fat Mamma's face.

"Your problem," said the owl as it pecked out Fat Mamma's eyes, "is you don't appreciate what you've got until it's gone."

The maggots crawled onto Fat Mamma's yellowed fingers.