I hear her triumphant buzzing, a crescendo from multiple mouths, "Rhizopus is dead. And dear Richard, rats do not eat flies, but the reverse is true: it will be a delight to swarm all over your carcasses, suck you dry of your stinking juices and lay my eggs in your putrescence." The shapeless disarray that is the Queen Mother reforms, at least partially. I notice a half-face and a vague neck and shoulder coalescing among the dying rats.
Her half-visage hurls one final curse at the liquifying corpse of Professor Rhizopus. “You feed on decomposing flesh but in fact, you grow everywhere, Professor. Your medium can be flesh, soil, wood, bread, even rock. You call yourself Professor, because of the countless old books and parchments you have grown on and consumed over the centuries. You are th
