Smudged Glass

"Why do y-o-o--u-o-u- mock me??" As the gelatinous blob that was more or less the Prince's torso tried to fit through the crack with renewed gusto, a wet and sour-smelled fart tore through the air. The gas had to go somewhere because of all that squeezing, after all. "B-b-ite???—HURURGRGGGBLAP—" The cry of worry was cut off by bile or some sort of other stomach-acid mixture dribbling from the Prince's lips. Arms, too many of them and of varying different lengths struggled to shove the tumour-contoured body through to the other side.