The noise Billy heard at 7:00 a.m. was both terrifying and strangely familiar, like the sound of a severe weather alert that interrupts your favorite song on the radio. He instinctively rolled onto his alarm clock and put an end to the auditory assault.
He smacked his lips together thickly, as though he has just eaten a cotton ball topped with a dollop of peanut butter. All he could taste was the sticky smell that came barreling forth during his morning expiration like a locomotive from the darkest caverns of his anatomy. It was a smell he could taste, a taste he could smell. A nasty duality of the senses that was all at once uncomfortable, jarring and strangely delicious, not only for himself but potentially for those who found themselves themselves within a six-foot radius of his bulb.
“Christ,” Billy said out loud. It was to no one in particular, although perhaps he was subconsciously preparing to ask the fellow why his breath smelled like dead people. He got up to brush his teeth, although he knew it wouldn’t help. Being an onion sure came with its fair share of misfortunes and he was feeling particularly ornery this morning.