Wormwood Farms.

"These are some pretty good peaches!"

Finishing the last bite of a freshly picked peach, Orson tucked a handful of others into his satchel. Smelling of cheap booze and body odor, the vagrant stashed what fruit he could before running. By sheer chance, he'd stumbled upon a farm while walking towards Ottumwa, Iowa. As he trespassed, Orson noticed the sign at the property gate -- Wormwood Farms. No one seemed to be home, so he decided now was as good a time as any to scavenge for some food.

Later that evening, Orson picked out a nice hiding spot under a bridge. Resting along the bank of the Des Moines River, this was as good as it was going to get for the night. It could have been worse, Orson thought to himself. That one time he cuddled up to a dead raccoon for warmth in Cleveland definitely took the cake. Orson pealed off his damp socks and hung them on a nearby branch to dry. As the stars began to emerge, he could count the bird silhouettes soaring above, floating along as the last rays of sunlight vanished. One bird, two birds, three birds...

Orson fell asleep counting them.

The sound of a rumbling train woke Orson from a terrible nightmare. Springing to life in a puddle of sweat, he couldn't help but feel like a whipped dog. Vivid images of squirming flesh morsels and rotten meat had filled his mind just a moment before. The train's low set rumble came to a squelch, then stopped as it eased into the local train station. Feeling bloated, Orson crawled out of his sleeping bag and slipped his shoes on. Stomping forth in the haze of a half-visible moon, he trotted down to the river and unzipped his pants. Relieving himself in the even-paced current of the Des Moines, Orson gripped his hairy stomach and let loose a gnarly burp. Unbeknownst to the hapless Orson, a peculiar gourmet of exotic substances were swirling in his bowels.

He'd know soon enough.

Shaking the last drop into the river, Orson began to zip his fly. Before reaching the top, a light stabbing sensation tickled his bladder.

"Damn kidney stones... ugh."

Scratching at his genitalia would fail to provide any relief for the poor bum. While doing so, he noticed the pain growing more intense and widespread. His manhood held firmly in his hands, he was alarmed at how it seemed to pulsate and swell. Orson again experienced the urge to urinate, but this time as if the power of Niagara Falls was pushing behind it. No longer urine, a single trickle of blood squirted into the river. Then another, and another. No sooner had Orson started to lose his balance did a gigantic blast of blood rip through his urethra, splitting his member into multiple pieces. Screaming in agony, Orson fell to the ground, gripping what was left of his organ in his hands. The oozing chunk of tissue simply wouldn't stop bleeding.

As the train left from the nearby station, the roaring thunder rendered Orson's screams all but silent.

His hands painted red, Orson couldn't quite gather his composure. He simply wouldn't stop bleeding. Alarmingly, the pain he'd just endured was nothing compared to what was about to begin.

What felt like a jagged saw blade ripped through his pelvis region. Orson's organs and guts launched in a glorious arch from his body, landing along the sandy river bank. His mind growing dimmer, Orson nearly didn't see the massive worm-like behemoth that emerged from his body cavity.

The light grew darker in his eyes. Consciousness was fleeting in this moment. Covered in mucus and guts, the viscous parasite flopped onto Orson's chest. Inching its way around his neck, it squeezed tightly. With the last breath escaping from Orson's lungs, he thankfully missed the part where the monstrosity blasted acid onto his face. The tubular sycophant began sucking the eyes from Orson's skull; it tugged until the optic nerves snapped free like a broken strand of rope. Slurping the noodle-like nerves into its mouth, the horrific fiend ingested the contents of the dead vagabond's head.

An hour later, Orson's cranium was as hollow as beach ball. Peeking forth from one of the empty eye sockets, the monstrosity opened it's razor-filled maw. It made a chattering noise, like that of a locust swarm. Orson's satchel rocked back and forth before its zipper ripped open. Four smaller versions of the parasitic mutant grub squirmed out of the bag. Using one of the crab-like appendages tucked along it's scaly belly, the hellish nightmare ushered its companions down Orson's throat. As they all dove into the fleshy feast, the last car of the train clamored into the darkness.

No one would discover Orson's body the next morning. Nothing was left to be found.

A few miles away, as dawn's first light emblazed the never-ending Iowa sky, a rickety old farm truck with a bed full of peaches lurched onto the highway.