The Last Flatmate

Is this a tidy flat? I like to think so.

It wasn’t always this way.

The last flatmate was bad.

Socks in the hallway.

A box of chicken under the couch.

The oven gas on overnight. If I didn’t notice, we might be dead.

Rotting meat, uneaten meals, stinking the place up.

We found a solution though.

We knocked him out.

We tied him up in the bath.

We chopped up, cooked and ate him, piece by piece.

He was alive for the first week. Seeing the mess he made, smelling himself rotting.

But don’t worry, we cleaned up afterwards.

2 Responses to The Last Flatmate

  1. Ew, ew, ew!
    (and kind of funny.)
    Cannibalism stories sort of freak me out…

  2. smileham says:

    I used to live with you guys!
    My god, I wondered what the smell was!
    At least you left out the part with the sock!

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