The night had settled heavy over the quiet neighborhood, the warm orange of the streetlights spilling faintly through the blinds of Kelsey’s living room. Inside, the soft hum of a Netflix show played on the TV, broken occasionally by the sharp, melodic laugh of Kelsey or the knowing smirk of Joanna, who sat calmly with a half-empty beer in hand. The scent of perfume, stale upholstery, and cheap beer filled the space—a cozy, familiar funk of friendship and worn furniture.

Kelsey cracked open a new beer, and sipped it as she sat next to her friend. Joanna leaned back into the couch, her dark eyes scanning the room with idle ease. But her fingers twitched slightly inside the pocket of her jeans. Nestled against her thigh was the vial. Warm now, from the heat of her body, the tiny man inside it—barely 5mm tall—had long since stopped screaming. Her smile twitched. He had been Kelsey's mistake once. He had reached out to Joanna to "tell his side," to explain, to plead. That had been his last mistake.

Kelsey giggled at something on screen and stood, brushing crumbs from her pants. “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.”

“Take your time,” Joanna said sweetly, her voice syrup-thick with amusement.

As the bathroom door clicked shut and the muffled sound of running water and distant urination echoed through the hallway, Joanna moved quickly. The vial popped softly as she uncorked it. The man inside, frantic, flailed as light spilled in.

“No… please no—”

The words were lost as Joanna tipped the vial over Kelsey’s open can. With a wet plop, the minuscule man dropped into a dark, foamy hell. The beer was room-temperature and acrid, sloshing around him like a vat of alcohol . No handhold, no solid ground. He treaded wildly, inhaling the yeasty scent, tinged with metallic taste. 

Panic exploded in his chest as the floor trembled—Kelsey was coming back.

Joanna tucked the vial away, crossed her legs, and smiled.

Kelsey flopped back down beside her, letting out a satisfied sigh. The couch cushions shifted. Her fingers found the beer. Joanna watched intently, every cell of her body tuned to the can. But Kelsey didn’t drink immediately. She was talking about work, about something their manager at the restaurant said. Joanna forced herself to nod, to pretend to listen. Her eyes flicked down to the can again and again.

Then—finally—a sip.

The can tilted.

Inside, the tiny man screamed as a wave of beer surged forward. His whole world rolled. The top of the can suddenly felt like a gate to hell—huge, pink lips met the rim, and a suction of monstrous force pulled the liquid toward the abyss. The sound was thunderous—slurping, swallowing, the echo of flesh and metal and breath. And then, the can righted. Everything called as she set the can back down on the coffee table. He was treading beer, but there was absolutely nothing to hold onto. And then, the world shifted again.

He was yanked toward the opening—he fought it, flailed. His fingers, slick with foam, found the rim. He clung there, panting, the cold, sharp aluminum biting into his palms. He could see Kelsey’s face now—enormous, beautiful, completely unaware of his struggle. She laughed at something Joanna said, her breath washing over him in warm, sour waves.

He wanted to cry.

Then another sip.

Kelsey’s lips parted again, faster this time—she was thirstier now. The suction pulled him free of the rim. Then—wet, hot, alive—her mouth. Her tongue pressed him against her teeth. He tried to scream, but beer filled his throat. A sickening gulp.

Everything went silent.

Then wet again—thick and searing, and this time, he wasn’t in the can.

He was in her.

Inside her.

Sliding down an impossibly tight tunnel of muscle and slime. Down, down, until he splashed into a pool of churning acid and foam. The smell hit him first—sharp, sour, like bile and death. The walls pulsed around him. The sounds—her breath, her heartbeat, the groan of her stomach digesting—filled his world.

He was alive.

And he was never getting out.

The heat was unbearable.

The tiny man coughed, sputtering in the acrid pool of half-digested liquid. The beer had mixed with bile and stomach acid into a foamy, corrosive soup, but he wasn’t dissolving. Not yet. It stung, yes, and the air—what little of it—was humid and sharp, but something was… off. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was the beer.

Because he was starting to feel… weird.

His arms felt heavy. The panic that had gripped his chest like a vice was slowly being replaced by a creeping numbness. He blinked hard and looked around the dark, fleshy chamber. Shadows sloshed with each movement Kelsey made outside—her every shift and bounce rippled through the living cavern around him. Her stomach walls squelched and pulsed, groaning deeply. A deafening gurgle rolled through the chamber, and a fresh wave of frothy liquid sloshed over him, submerging him in the lukewarm beer-bile mix.

He popped to the surface again, gasping and… laughing?

He was buzzed. His brain was swimming in alcohol faster than his limbs could tread. Every breath he took reeked of fermentation and acid. His head lolled back.

“This is insane,” he slurred to no one, gripping a floating chunk of something rubbery—half-digested pepperoni? Bread crust? His stomach churned at the idea, but he wrapped his arms around it and pulled himself atop it like a life raft.

From outside, he could hear them—faint echoes, distorted and monstrous.

“Another round?” Joanna's voice boomed like the voice of a god through the fleshy cavern.

“Hell yeah,” Kelsey replied with a giggle. The sound vibrated through her body, and her stomach flexed, nearly tossing him back into the soup. He clung tighter to the greasy lump of food, groaning.

Outside, the smell was mouthwatering. As the first bite of pizza made its way down her throat, the tunnel above him groaned open—and a chewed-up, steaming mass of cheese and bread splattered into the stomach with a wet plop, narrowly missing him.

Chunks of pizza rained down like meteors, sizzling in the acids, sending up tiny bubbles and smoke-like puffs. One hit his raft and nearly rolled him off. The heat was immense, like lava falling from the sky.

And still, he was getting drunker.

He tried to stand, to shout, to scream her name—“Kelsey!”—but it came out as a slurred mess, his voice drowned in the endless gurgles and digestive noise. Her stomach rumbled again, longer this time. Lower. Hungrier.

“She’s eating, you idiot,” he muttered to himself, laughing and crying all at once. “You’re in her stomach and she’s eating pizza.”

Another sip of beer came down, washing over him and sending him tumbling, clinging wildly to a soggy bit of crust like a castaway. More sloshing. More heat. And above it all, the slow, content hum of Kelsey’s voice.

The beer was still working its magic on her, too—she sounded relaxed, cozy, laughing with Joanna about something on TV. The sound of a can cracking open echoed through her like thunder, and more warm liquid rolled down toward him.

He lay back on the chunk of food, eyes glassy, mind spinning.

This was his hell now.

A drunken, living nightmare, lost inside the gut of someone who didn’t even know he was there.

The night dragged deep into silence.

Joanna lay stretched across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, a half-finished beer still cradled loosely in her hand. The television cast faint blue flickers over her relaxed face, now softened by sleep. The room smelled of stale hops, cardboard pizza boxes, and the lingering warmth of a long, indulgent hangout. Somewhere in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge was joined by the occasional creak of old floorboards settling.

But then… a sound.

Ghh-ugh… hurk…

Joanna stirred, one eye cracking open.

Another sound—wet, unmistakable.

Huuuurk—GLLRRKHHHHH

She sat up slowly, blinking blearily, trying to place the sound. The light in the hallway was on, a pale rectangle glowing faintly. She heard another gag, followed by a violent splash, then Kelsey’s weak voice, breathless and slurred:

“Ugh… oh god…”

Joanna smirked.

“Heh… lightweight,” she muttered, letting her head fall back against the cushion. She didn’t get up—why would she? Kelsey could handle her own hangover. Still, a small, sadistic grin curled across her lips.

She knew what was coming.

Inside the bathroom, Kelsey was hunched over the toilet, one hand gripping the rim with white knuckles, the other trembling across her forehead. Her hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat, and tears welled in her eyes as she coughed and gagged again.

She didn’t even remember how many beers she’d had. Six? Seven? The pizza had been greasy and amazing, but now her stomach was roiling like a boiling swamp. Her skin was clammy, and every deep breath she took made her gag harder.

And then—it came.

She doubled over as a wave of vomit surged up her throat, acidic and vile. Her body heaved and flexed uncontrollably, a monstrous retching that shook her down to the core.

Inside her stomach, the man had long since abandoned any sense of hope—or sanity.

He had been drunk. Then very drunk. Then—somewhere between Kelsey’s eighth sip and the second slice of pizza—he passed into something much darker: inebriated delirium.

He had no concept of time. His vision spun with every churn of her stomach, every breath a steaming blast of acid and heat. He had tried to climb a half-digested breadstick at one point, chanting some nonsense to himself. He had named it. "Sir Crustleton."

He slipped and fell into the pool again, gasping and laughing through tears. His whole body buzzed, like he was made of static.

But then—something changed.

The stomach tightened. The usual gurgles gave way to violent, spasming convulsions. The acids churned, rising like a tide. The air shifted. Pressure. Heat.

And then—upward motion.

Fast.

“What—no, no, NO—”

The world around him lurched. His raft was gone. The pool rose with terrifying speed. A great heaving groan echoed through the fleshy chamber, and then the walls clenched, crushing him upward in a tsunami of beer, bile, pizza, and regret.

He rocketed into her esophagus, surrounded by a roiling flood of vomit, tossed like refuse through a slippery hell-tunnel. His arms flailed, his screams drowned beneath the surging noise of retching and choking and liquid destruction.

Then—light.

A flash of ceramic white.

And air.

And then—

BLUUUURRGHHHHHHHHH—SSSSLPOSH!

He was expelled into the toilet bowl like a living nightmare, splashing amidst half-digested pepperoni, beer foam, and acidic chunks of dough. He surfaced, coughing violently, eyes stinging.

He looked up—Kelsey's massive, sweat-slick face loomed above him, mouth open, eyes dazed and glassy.

She had no idea he was there.

A string of saliva dangled from her lip as she gasped and leaned back over the bowl.

“No—please!” he cried out.

Another wave came. He was swept into it, tumbling end over end into the reeking soup, helpless.

He was in her vomit.

And somehow, still alive.

And the night wasn't over.

Kelsey’s stomach heaved again.

Another brutal wave of nausea hit her like a truck, and she lurched forward with a hoarse gag, her knees creaking on the cold tile floor. Her throat burned raw as she retched once more, forcing up another torrent of half-digested beer, sauce, and bile. The sound echoed hideously off the bathroom walls—GGLUUURRRGHHHHHKKHHSSSHLP!

The toilet bowl frothed and sloshed beneath her face, a grotesque stew of stomach contents. And in it, he thrashed—utterly consumed by terror.

His arms flailed, desperate for anything solid. Vomit clung to him like sludge, seeping into his mouth and eyes, choking every scream. His entire body was coated in it, swimming in a toilet bowl of acid and beer, pizza pulp floating like bloated corpses beside him.

Then the sound of movement.

Clack-thud.

Kelsey sat back on her heels with a moan, her breath ragged. “Ugh… too much,” she mumbled to herself, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. Her hand trembled as she reached out for the counter, steadied herself, and staggered to her feet.

He looked up and saw her towering over the bowl, dazed, pale, eyes barely focused. Then—the rustle of fabric.

“No,” he whispered, barely able to keep his head above the vomit. “No no no—”

Her pants hit the floor with a soft thump. She turned, half-limping, and lowered herself down onto the toilet seat with a groan.

Directly above him.

The air changed instantly—hotter, muskier. The smell of vomit mixed now with something sharper, more intimate. The shadows shifted as she sat.

And then—a hiss.

Warm liquid splashed into the already rancid bowl, pelting him like acid rain. He screamed, gagged, went under. The ammonia burned his nose. He surfaced again, sputtering, spinning in a whirlpool of urine and vomit and leftover beer. He kicked wildly, trying to swim, to crawl, to reach the smooth, piss-slick ceramic wall—but there was nowhere to go.

Above, Kelsey let out a long, groggy sigh of relief. “God…” she muttered, barely conscious.

And then, her hand reached lazily to the side.

He saw it.

The handle.

He screamed again, his voice hoarse, ragged, lost in the flood.

She flushed.

With a hollow whoompf, the water around him surged and twisted. A roar of suction, deafening and violent. His raft—the crust, the clumps, the bile—all pulled toward the abyss.

He clung to a wad of something unidentifiable as the entire bowl tilted beneath him, his body spinning.

“Nooooo!” he wailed, voice echoing into the void.

And then he was pulled under, screaming, swirling, flushed into darkness.

A beer-soaked speck, lost forever in the pipes beneath Kelsey’s house.

The end.