As he realised with dread that gravity was taking over, he tried to grasp at some kind of handhold, but couldn’t get any purchase and tumbled with a panicked yelp off the huge heap of binbags, expecting to hit the hard floor but instead landing in the total darkness on more bin bags, from which he fell onto more below, and still more, unable to see where they ended or prepare for the moment when he would meet something solid, which not even the bags contained, every one being stuffed full with a squelchy melange of beans, putrid chicken offcuts and amazingly heavily-laden nappies and tampons.
The cycle of life
As the turd hit her, part of her skull cracked and fell inwards, temporarily trapping some of the fat maggots and grubs that were devouring the last scraps of her rotting brain.
The way of all flesh
He loved her norks. He hated her face. Good thing she no longer had one, largely because all her flesh had rotted off other than the carefully-preserved chest area. He still struggled to land his load there, though, and after so many failed attempts, her bones looked like some kind of abandoned snail farm, at least until his dog got in on the action.
A huge gobbet of spunk splattered against her cheek and into her eye, or rather her eye socket, thence to run down inside her skull and out of her nose, or rather her nasal cavity, the cartilage having rotted away in the weeks after her death.