Im not sure what was making me more nauseous: the motion or the smell. Even after what I guess was about two weeks of servitude, I wasnt used to either. Inside his gym bag was dark, but some light peaked in through the cracks in the zipper. Filling the space inside was a mountain range of gym gear: sweaty underwear, used socks, an old jock, and a massive pair of blue and white Jordan VI shoes created a dynamic landscape that moved with each step. Dotting the hills and valleys of gear was a couple of shrunken men. About 20 of us made up his athletic bag squad or his gym fags as he liked to call us. Some of the miniscule men (each about two inches in height) crawled over the shifting gear towards the sweaty pair of Jordans that were haphazardly dropped in a few minutes ago. I knew the reason for their rush too--our master likes eager slaves and when he decided to zip open his bag again he expects to see us doing our duties.
↧