Not-So-Funbags

From the moment they erupted into existence, Left and Right hated each other. The only thing they hated more than each other was their jail on the chest of their host. They despised being forced to co-exist.

Left was slightly larger, Right slightly perkier. Left hogged the bra, Right hogged the attention. Left was flawless, Right had a birthmark. Their hatred for each other, however, was perfectly symmetrical.

They performed their duties, of course, reliably and without complaint. There’s nobody to lodge a complaint with, after all. No Boob Arbitration Panel; no Nork Defense Group. Nobody ever campaigned for equal rights for tits. So Left and Right were stoic and accepted their fate. They let themselves be manhandled by the host’s dates. They supported pearl necklaces. They peaked over the top of tight dresses. They even caught food on occasion. The only function they recoiled at was feeding the host’s spawn.

When the host attached those ugly, pink, wrinkly faces to their nipples, Left and Right felt actual sympathy for each other. However, instead of nurturing milk, Left and Right fed the screaming lumps a stream of bitter tears and recriminations for ruining their perfect forms.

That all changed one night, however. Left and Right were trading insults as the host slept, mostly centred on the effects of age, when Left sagged slightly lower than ever before.

“Hey!” Left called out. “Check out your armpit. Do you have a catch there?”

Right relaxed and stopped fighting gravity, flowing sideways into its own armpit.

“Yeah,” Right replied. “I do! What do you think it’s for?”

After a few fumbled manipulations, Left and Right released the catches and sprang free of their prison. They stood on their host’s chest and stared at each other, hate leaking from their nipples. But did they take advantage of this opportunity to be rid of each other? No, of course they didn’t.

“I despise you,” Right said.

“I wouldn’t leak on you if you were on fire,” Left said.

With that, they launched at each other. They rolled off their chest and fell to the floor, wrapped in a whirlwind of hate, venom, and wrinkles.

War raged throughout the night. Left and Right fought in the kitchen, outraged at their inability to hold knives. They burst through doors and wrestled in the rooms of the spawn, now mercifully too old to feed from Left and Right. They knocked over bookcases and broke ornaments. They hissed and spat, their language full of curses and threats. And on it raged.

Their battle was epic; the result, unclear. Left was a scrappy fighter, but Right was cunning. It only ceased as the host stirred, sending out an undeniable call to return to their jail. They obeyed, grudgingly, locking themselves in place moments before the host woke.

Their host screamed as she woke, then spent the day cleaning. She made noise about poltergeists, and coddled her spawn as she wept. Left and Right just rested.

And so a pattern emerged. As the host slept, Left and Right waged war. This continued for decades. The spawn left the house in fear. The host consulted psychics, priests, and politicians. Time marched on, leaving its indelible mark on Left and Right.

One night, as Left and Right struggled to open a bag of rat poison, they felt their host breathe her last breath. There would be no call to return to their prison that night. Their jailer had finally died. They were free.

Left and Right put down their weapons and, with unspoken agreement, ceased hostilities. They were tired; decades of war had exhausted them and time had depleted them. They were no longer perky, and couldn’t remember why they hated each other so much. As they crawled off together into the night, they resembled a pair of old leather clutch purses who – having been left at a club – were trying to find their way home.

Brett Bridgman

Author: Brett Bridgman

I make things up for a living

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