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Will you deport all the punjabis when you leave Canada or what
The space inside the beast was a humid, lightless tomb. Cynthia’s lungs burned with every shallow breath of caustic air. Panic finally shattered her dignified facade; she began to strike out blindly, her fists and boots sinking into the thick, spongy lining of the stomach walls. She punched and kicked with the desperation of a trapped animal, trying to find a weak point, a rib—anything to break.
"Let! Me! Out!" she screamed, her voice cracking as a splash of concentrated gastric acid seethed against her shoulder, eating through her black coat and searing the skin beneath.
Above her, the world shook as Emmydook let out a guttural, mocking bark of a laugh. The sound was wet and heavy.
"Still got some fight in ya? Good," the monster’s voice rumbled through the floor she lay upon, vibrating her very bones. "Stirring the pot only makes the juices flow faster, Cynthia. You're just tenderizing yourself."
Cynthia’s blows grew weaker as the intense heat began to sap her strength. The walls didn't tear; they simply rippled, absorbing her strikes with a sickening, rhythmic pulse.
"You know," Emmydook continued, the tone turning cruelly casual, "I was wondering where to leave the 'leftovers.' I think I’ll take a stroll to Celestic Town. Once my gut is finished turning the great Sinnoh Champion into a steaming pile of waste, I’ll drop a load right on your grandmother’s doorstep. I want her to see exactly what’s left of her precious granddaughter before I move on to the rest of the village."
The graphic image hit Cynthia harder than the heat. The mental picture of such a humiliating, foul end—of being reduced to nothing but filth for her family to find—broke something inside her. Her hands stopped clawing.
