He’s no longer in the whale. He’s in hell. Fiery haze warps his vision, it’s twice as bright here, so violet it’s pink, neon ghosts waltzing over a bubbling, crimson stew, all within a purple-red bag roughly the same size and tightness of the previous space Jay was in. It’s sweaty hot. Stinks of spoiling meat. Loud, too: flatulent cracks between the spit, gurgle, squeal, and suck. Jay pulls himself through the fleshy portal.
