Bruising around swollen lymph node under armpit

15 years ago I was treated for Chronic Lyme (I never knew when and that I was bitten but I’m a foreign person so I did not know anything about Lyme prior to that) as I came positive on a test. Did 1 whole year of antibiotics (I was treated by a licensed LLMD) and treatment was brutal and impacted my liver. I stopped treatment and went on with my life. Felt crappy 8 months past treatment but then saw improvement. Was never back 100% but carried on without major problems except mildly raise ALT (liver enzyme) on/off. Fast forward. Got Covid 3 times: March 2020, February 2022, and August 2023, (and even though I did very short antibiotics the first time after pneumonia infection) and I feel my liver took a severe toll after the third Covid. My GI track has been a mess ever since. And then got swollen lymph nodes (so far for 8 months and had extensive testing including biopsy to rule out lymphoma). So I have been following strict liver friendly diet since June 2022 without much improvement symptoms wise. I don’t drink, don’t smoke but prior to June 2022 would have a glass or two on a weekend. Wishes doctors would have told me my liver was hit then. Now. Friday before last week, I got a bite. I thought it to be a bug bite and it hurt and itched. By Sunday I developed the dial. But it was not the target looking rash, but more a red oval which I’m reading is first sign of Lyme. My swollen lymph nodes got worse. And by Monday (I was still within the 72 hour window) called the doctor and he saw the rash and told me it was “unlikely Lyme”. But he prescribed Azythromicyn and I started taking it about 74-76 hours past the bite. But the next day the rash looked worse and I looked it up and it was Lyme. So the next ER doctor changed the antibiotics to Cefuroxime as it is milder on the liver. I’m on day 6 today but two night ago my liver started hurting, and I got some very mild under skins bleeding from scratching myself. Anywhere I read says I need to finish the full 14-day course but I’m not sure my liver would handle it. I’m nervous. Damn if I do, damn if I don’t. As I know first hand chronic Lyme is not to play with. Doxy is impossible for me to handle and this is the best antibiotic I have handle but I can tell my liver is struggling. Doctors would not guide me on what to do. help!

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

Im 18F, 5'2 125 lbs. i dont smoke, only take some topical perscribed medication for psoriasis. Posting this just to share my experience and ask for some insight. I saw my first swollen node about 3 years ago, and it was painful to the touch and about the size of a small marble right on my bikini like where my leg reaches my underwear. Before this i never even knew what a lymph node was because ive never had a swollen one before in all my life. I went to the doctor and he said before he went into the deep dive of scans, hed give me antibiotics to see what happens. The lump went down, and I was relieved. And then it came back, and slightly bigger and even with two. Around this time i was feeling alot of fatigue. But I just waited them out and they never went completely away, but theyd come back down and up and down again and i just assumed theyd be due to my psoriasis flare ups, an autoimmune disorder I have (i have about light to medium flare ups) (i also read psoriasis can increase chances of lymphoma) My breaking point was the next year, when my armpits became filled with horrible rashes, so intense ane painful and soon each armpit had about 3 large marble sized balls (will attach image). I went to a dermatologist (for the psoriasis) and decided to bring up the lymph nodes while i was at it. Without even feeling them, he said they were swollen and infected sweat glands and gave me antibiotics. Surprisingly they went away, but i know get a tingly sensation in my armpits every know and then. Ever since then for the next two years I had swollen nodes in the same spot where they began. I had up to three at a time, the largest the size of a grape. But they always went up and down and up and down in swelling, sonit made me feel like i was going crazy. I saw two more doctors after that after noticing another swollen node in my neck, and all of them just say i have anxiety (i have a fear of doctors so they can see im tense) and i just need to relax. I got bloodwork done and everytbing came back normal but ive known many that get diagnosed woth mormal blood work, i got tested for lupus and cat scratch disease, both negative. The only thing i can think of is my psoriasis, but right now i have two grape sized nodes in my groin and one in my armpit (one of the groin one is a new one) and i have no psoriasis flare up. All i want is a ct scan to see if i happen to have many large ones internally as that usually leads to diagnosis, but i have a toxic mother that takes over my doctor appointments and dismisses my symptoms for having anxiety and being paranoid. I just have a bad feeling about all this. This has been going on for three years. What could it be?

I’m a 32 year old Caucasian female, Nulliparous, 5’4, 200 lbs, lightly active, healthy diet, no past medical history. All vitals WNL. Seasonal allergies.
I have had a lump inside my armpit for the last 3 weeks.
About 4 weeks ago, I started applying a lot of exfoliating products under my arms - nothing crazy, things that I would put on my face. 3 weeks ago, I was getting ready for work and I had a tender lump inside my armpit. I assumed it was a pimple or cyst and that I would erupt in a week, maybe two. My boyfriend says it was the size of a Lima bean when I first discovered it. You can’t see it by looking, you’d have to palpate.
Fast forward to now and it has progressively gotten significantly smaller and non tender (smaller than a pea). It also is shaped kind of oval-like. It’s hard to find. I notice activity, sweat, heat, and seem to make it less noticeable - but if I start playing with it and squeezing it it becomes a little irritated and tender, it maybe even temporarily swells a bit.
The only thing I can think of maybe I compressed a nerve or lymph node because I sit on the couch funny and rest my armpit over the armrest in a way that might be irritating?
I have no other symptoms, skin looks good, I feel alright, no fever or night sweats, good appetite, decent energy for a night shift worker, tolerates activity and alcohol well, bowel movements are good. Sleep is fine.
I made a doctors appointment for Monday. I feel silly getting it checked out but I worry about what might happen if I don’t. I’m an oncology nurse with a great deal of health anxiety - you can imagine the places my mind is taking me.

Long story short, my partner and I have been together for more than three years. During our relationship I’ve been tested for STD’s, including HIV, twice. I like to get general testing done every 1-2 years just to ensure I’m safe. My last testing was done around 11 months ago and I was negative/nonreactive across the board. I have only had relations with my partner since testing last. He has not had any testing done our entire relationship and to my knowledge has only had one not to successful encounter with another person, to which I was told nothing actually happened sexually, about 8 weeks ago.
Fast forward to 4 weeks ago up until now, my partner has started showing symptoms of HIV and it’s a little concerning. It started with sudden back pain, then swollen lymph nodes, then a flu like sickness, frequent urination, testicle pain and a few other things. He has been seen by his doctor and is being sent for testing, however his doctor did not mention any concern for HIV, only that it was part of his routine physical.
I guess I’m just curious what the chances are that he is actually HIV positive until any testing is completed by his doctor.

my dentist told me i should get my wisdom teeth extracted soon when i went in december 2022. i'd been having some occasional inflammation that'd usually only last a few days every couple of months that whole year, so i didn't think much of it. my mom was with me, and she told me she wasn't going to have me get my teeth extracted until i was actually in pain. i didn't go to the dentist in 2023 (i usually go when i'm in my hometown because i'm an out-of-state college student on my mom's insurance). since mid-march, both sides of my jaw and lymph nodes have been a bit sore in the mornings maybe 3/7 days of the week, but it usually goes away by the afternoon. no gum inflammation, no redness, no pain in my actual mouth. since monday morning this week, the soreness hasn't gone away, and instead my right lymph nodes have been slowly swelling more and more. along with this, i've been having occasional dull headaches, and headaches on my right temple. no fever, no redness, no swelling or pain in my actual mouth necessarily nor in my face. yesterday (friday), i went to urgent care and was told to monitor it, and if it gets worse to go to the dentist. i found only one dentist office that takes my insurance in the town i go to college in, but they're closed on weekends so i could only put in a request for an appointment instead of make an actual appointment. i'm terrified of having to wait too long, and the impaction becoming worse or infection spreading to my brain and killing me since my swollen lymph nodes are most-likely a sign of my wisdom teeth already being infected internally. i've never had surgery or been put under anasthesia before, and i have health anxiety, so i'm terrified of nerve damage, lockjaw, or other complications like waking during the procedure and not being able to move or speak. it's just a waiting game now. should i not worry about the infection spreading and killing me if i don't have redness or lots of pain or a fevechills? i just want to know that i'll be okay by the time i'm able to be seen by this dentist :(

[ 26F, 190lb, white/hispanic, no existing health issues besides allergies (take Zyrtec OTC daily), non smoker, recreational drinker. ]
2 part question; TIA!
I got back from a trip abroad in October and noticed a lump above my armpit about the size of a golf ball. I had an ultrasound done and bloodwork to confirm that it is a swollen lymph node. What is concerning me is that ever since I found this lump, I have been getting sick WAY more often than usual. Pretty much every single month. I have worked in a school district for a bit over a year now so I'm used to getting sick every so often but nothing like this. I had incredibly painful and swollen neck lymph nodes in April and my first sinus-like infection for about a month in March. And a cold every month at least.
I had a consult with a surgeon who basically just left it up to me whether I should get it removed or not (or do a core biopsy). It's not painful, just semi uncomfortable when applying deodorant.

1. Is it possible that this chronic swollen lymph node could be affecting my ability to fight off infection? The surgeon said no; it could only harbor infections like mono or HIV but I really haven't changed any of my habits to account for why I'm getting sick so much more often. I take vitamins and probiotics, eat generally well, exercise 3x week. I will say my sleep and water intake hasn't been the best lately.
2. Would removing this swollen lymph node likely affect my ability to fight off any future infections/ what if it happens again in a different spot??

PS: I have taken 2 rounds of antibiotics in the last 6 months. 1x for the lymph node and 1x for the active infection
I'm feeling incredibly frustrated by these constant bouts of sickness.

Blood work
36F 5’1 180lbs
5 pregnancies 4 living 1 abortion. I had a medical and a surgical for this one which is when I started noticing more of my symptoms.
Former addict - alcoholic (Been sober for years) Smoker quit on and off
Prescriptions currently prescribed are for bipolar and ADHD
I’ve been on lithium and lamactal since 2015
Lithium 450 Lamactal 200 Adderall Valium
A list of some of the symptoms I’ve been dealing with are the following.
Swollen legs that can be extremely painful. When climbing the stairs or walking it’s like there are weights strapped against around them.
Swollen feet
Numbness in hands and feet as well as tingling
Swollen arms and lymph nodes
Abnormal periods and severe clotting larger than quarter when on my period
Sometimes I bleed in between periods randomly or after sex
Extreme fatigue!!!!!
Loss of appetite
Painful red spots on scalp that bleed
Nausea
Ammonia smell detected in urine at times
Abdominal pain
Pelvic pain
Bruising easily
Discoloration in skin
Right side often in pain as well as neck and shoulder
Eyesight is blurry at times
Confusion and loss of balance occurs
After a meal I immediately have to run to the bathroom
Body aches
Chills at times and pain thought out my body
This is where I need help.
I had blood work done on the 2nd of May. I’ve been extremely ill going doctor to doctor trying to figure out what’s going on with me. I found a new obgyn and she did some blood work based on a few things I’ve mentioned that are a concern.
Fast forward and I missed one call from them last Friday before Memorial Day. They finally reviewed my results and so I immediately called them back once I realized I had missed their call. Since then no one has returned my calls and I’ve called daily at least three times to follow up. I finally called today stating I’d prefer to see the blood test results through the portal since I can’t get a call back from the nurse. So they set me up in the portal, and now I see them, but I’m not really sure what I’m looking at. When I followed up this afternoon they stated the nurse hasn’t reviewed my blood work yet. So besides the obvious google search can someone help?
https://imgur.com/a/7elVi5s

[25M] Medical mystery, neuro and skin symptoms post infection
My crazy symptoms after strange infection - neurological and flushing
In august last year I had strong infection, I was sweating by month, extreme fatigue, swollen lymph node under armpit.
Since then I have tons of symptons:

• neuropathic pain in back, deep pain in spine
• right shoulder blade is painful and deep itching, extremely weird tingling pain deep, when I move my arm
• my back feels so messed up I feel asymetric when I walk, when I breathe I feel pain in lot of different places in body
• redness on face, flushing, red ears, heatwaves and warm feeling (mostly at night) - when my face is flushed, symptoms of pins needles burning are the worst
• electric, neuralgic pains in face, head, scalp, pain when I move my eyes deep in face
• body itching, itch deep inside ears, face
• skin on face, scalp, eyelids twitch randomly, like electric shocks
• fatigue, brain fog
• brain zaps
• pins needles in feet, body for example when I put my clothes on
• random warm feelings in legs like hot water in legs
• hives which disappeared mostly

Here are pics of my red face flushed:
https://ibb.co/album/WWw7VS
Bloodwork is ok. Is it some kind of long covid? Taking gabapentin, doesnt help too much. Antihistamines doesnt work (ketotifen too) so not MCAS..Please, tell me which lab tests should I take. Please, I feel like a living dead.

25F, 5’5”, 118 lbs. No history of smoking. Generally considered healthy by every physician I’ve met. Just started taking famotidine for my acid reflux. I’ve been dealing with GI issues since 2016 but none of my episodes have been severe other than the time back in high school when I had trouble swallowing. I haven’t had a bad GERD episode in about a couple years until now, but this time something feels strange.
About a week ago, I started having frequent sharp chest pains in the left side of my chest. They were quick and felt like a pinch that lasted for about a split second. I didn’t pay them any mind until they started happening once a day, every night for a week straight. Then one day, I had another sharp chest pain but in the middle of my chest, followed by chest pressure and heartburn.
I went to the ER, had blood work and multiple tests done including an EKG and chest x-rays that all came back normal, so that rules out anything heart or respiratory related. The doctor suggested it might be a musculoskeletal issue, anxiety or acid reflux. I followed up with my PCP, who said acid reflux might be a more probable answer, and had a few more tests done including some blood and thyroid tests. She even ordered an ultrasound for my stomach. During this time, my chest pain/congestion was on and off and oftentimes it feels like there’s something stuck in my chest. My swallowing is fine, I haven't lost my appetite, and I haven’t thrown up anything I’ve eaten/drank, but I woke up multiple times last night with an uncomfortable feeling of pressure in my throat that made it hard to get some sleep.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s my GERD again, but I went doom scrolling on Google/tiktok and am paranoid that these might be symptoms of esophageal cancer. I know it’s a rare cancer, but how likely is it that my acid reflux could cause it?
***Also side note that I feel like needs to be added: I also have a swollen lymph node under the jaw. It feels slightly irritated (probably from me touching it). It’s been there for at least six months now, so probably not related to what I’m going through right now but it is making me paranoid as I heard a swollen lymph node could be a symtpom.

21 female in the USA I’ve been diagnosed with Epstein Barr since October 2023 due to getting blood work done because of a swollen lymph node. Since that October I’ve noticed how exhausted I’ve been. It comes in waves of 2 weeks where I am okay and then a month or so of me unable to do anything due to how tired I am. I’m currently in that period where I can’t do anything. I can barely get out of bed and I’m not eating due to me sleeping all day. I’ll be up for maybe 2 hours then I’m asleep for 8 hours. Alongside this when I get mildly sick, ie a headache or the sniffles my body sleeps for nearly 10 hours at a time. I cannot get work done, I can’t find time to do what I need to on top of all of this I’m worried I’m going to just sleep forever. And I hate naps, I hate sleeping, so all of this sucks. More information in February of 2024 I got diagnosed with Bells Palsy and parotitis. It was painful and I was on a whole bunch of medicine for it and it took several months to go away. My doctor thinks the Bell’s palsy was caused by my parotitis but he is not going to confirm it. Is this normal? As always google says I’m dying and for some stupid reason I believe it. Should I go back to my doctor, if so what would he be able to do? Can I learn to live around this?
Any and all advice is appreciated

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

I am a 20 year old female, around 5’6, Yesterday I was running and tripped, landing head first on pavement, I may have possibly blacked out for a couple seconds because the people standing around me looked blurry from the bottom. I had a huge bump on the top of my eyebrow, a bloody slit under the brow, and today my eye is completely swollen purple/red with small amounts of bruising showing where the bump was. I've felt so tired today (slept 16 hours) my arms are super shaky and im having really bad neck pain
Could this be a concussion? I haven't yet made an appointment with a dr, but going to the clinic tm

Spring 2023: started getting new patches of eczema that I self diagnosed as dyhidrotic eczema. They responded to topical steroids.
summer 2023 I noticed swelling of left submandibular node. When I was practicing for 2k swim I would occasionally feel it click/move when I would move my head out of the water to breathe. At first painless. Now painful. Does not go down between illnesses. Swells for very minor disruptions of my face like zits, mosquito bite on my forehead, sore gum.
Oct 23 - right knee starts hurting a lot, pain persists currently. Allergies had also been under good control but itch begins at this point. Mainly itchy deep in neck, cannot scratch itch. Also very bad in nasal passages, ears, palms, sometimes feet. No visible rash. On Singulair, Zyrtec, xyzal, & ketotifen eye drops.
Nov 23 - caught RSV from 2yo, was very sick for 2-3 weeks
1 URI in dec.
Jan 11 - noro virus that brought me to ED, needed potassium repleted, watery diarrhea for 20 days, lost 10lbs
Jan 26-Feb 2. URI maybe COVID? Cov test neg.
Feb 13 - saleidentitis x7 days : left chin node very sore for weeks after this. Could not eat for a week, visibly clogged duct underneath tongue.
March - new red patches on hands start to form. Triamcinolone not helping. Itch in neck and through upper body, now head becoming really bad.
March 3rd - new uri lasts 4 days
March 19th - new uri lasts 3-4 days
April 18th - TSH triples from last check to 2.98, dose of Levo has been the same since 2018
April 22nd - new uri lasts 3-4 days
May 4th new uri starts, cold sore forms and doesn’t respond to valtrex
May 18th- wake up with bone aches and congestion, feel sick all weekend. (Possibly start of mono?)
May 20th- cold sore forms, doesn’t respond to valtrex.
May 25 - swollen neck nodes, positive mono spot, IgE 349, diffuse joint pain. Lost 10lbs since 4/18 unintentionally. No appetite.
Labs as of now: ANA positive with speckled pattern 1:320 ENA negative SLE labs all negative CBC relatively normal, and lymph’s 3.7 wbc 11 IgE 349 Regular IgM and IgG normal, EBV specific IgG and IgM pending

IMPORTANT SAFETY INFORMATION & INDICATIONS Do not use if you are allergic to dupilumab or to any of the ingredients in DUPIXENT®. Before using DUPIXENT tell, your healthcare provider about all your medical conditions, including if you: • have eye problems. • have a parasitic (helminth) infection. • are scheduled to receive any vaccinations. You should not receive a “live vaccine” right before and during treatment with DUPIXENT. • are pregnant or plan to become pregnant. It is not known whether DUPIXENT will harm your unborn baby. • A pregnancy registry for women who take DUPIXENT during pregnancy collects information about the health of you and your baby. To enroll or get more information call 1-877-311-8972 or go to https://mothertobaby.org/ongoing-study/dupixent/. • are breastfeeding or plan to breastfeed. It is not known whether DUPIXENT passes into your breast milk. Tell your healthcare provider about all the medicines you take, including prescription and over-the-counter medicines, vitamins, and herbal supplements. Especially tell your healthcare provider if you are taking oral, topical, or inhaled corticosteroid medicines; have asthma and use an asthma medicine; or have atopic dermatitis, chronic rhinosinusitis with nasal polyposis, eosinophilic esophagitis, or prurigo nodularis and also have asthma. Do not change or stop your corticosteroid medicine or other asthma medicine without talking to your healthcare provider. This may cause other symptoms that were controlled by the corticosteroid medicine or other asthma medicine to come back. DUPIXENT can cause serious side effects, including: • Allergic reactions, DUPIXENT can cause allergic reactions that can sometimes be severe. Stop using DUPIXENT and tell your healthcare provider or get emergency help right away if you get any of the following signs or symptoms: breathing problems or wheezing, swelling of the face, lips, mouth, tongue or throat, fainting, dizziness, feeling lightheaded, fast pulse, fever, hives, joint pain, general ill feeling, itching, skin rash, swollen lymph nodes, nausea or vomiting, or cramps in your stomach-area. • Eye problems. Tell your healthcare provider if you have any new or worsening eye problems, including eye pain or changes in vision, such as blurred vision. Your healthcare provider may send you to an ophthalmologist for an exam if needed. • Inflammation of your blood vessels. Rarely, this can happen in people with asthma who receive DUPIXENT. This may happen in people who also take a steroid medicine by mouth that is being stopped or the dose is being lowered. It is not known whether this is caused by DUPIXENT. Tell your healthcare provider right away if you have: rash, chest pain, worsening shortness of breath, a feeling of pins and needles or numbness of your arms or legs, or persistent fever. • Joint aches and pain. Some people who use DUPIXENT have had trouble walking or moving due to their joint symptoms, and in some cases needed to be hospitalized. Tell your healthcare provider about any new or worsening joint symptoms. Your healthcare provider may stop DUPIXENT if you develop joint symptoms. The most common side effects include: • Eczema: injection site reactions, eye and eyelid inflammation, including redness, swelling, and itching, sometimes with blurred vision, dry eye, cold sores in your mouth or on your lips, and high count of a certain white blood cell (eosinophilia). • Asthma: injection site reactions, high count of a certain white blood cell (eosinophilia), pain in the throat (oropharyngeal pain), and parasitic (helminth) infections. • Chronic rhinosinusitis with Nasal Polyposis: injection site reactions, eye and eyelid inflammation, including redness, swelling, and itching, sometimes with blurred vision, high count of a certain white blood cell (eosinophilia), gastritis, joint pain (arthralgia), trouble sleeping (insomnia), and toothache. • Eosinophilic Esophagitis: injection site reactions, upper respiratory tract infections, cold sores in your mouth or on your lips, and joint pain (arthralgia). • Prurigo Nodularis: eye and eyelid inflammation, including redness, swelling, and itching, sometimes with blurred vision, herpes virus infections, common cold symptoms (nasopharyngitis), dizziness, muscle pain, and diarrhea. Tell your healthcare provider if you have any side effect that bothers you or that does not go away. These are not all the possible side effects of DUPIXENT. Call your doctor for medical advice about side effects. You are encouraged to report negative side effects of prescription drugs to the FDA. Visit www.fda.gov/medwatch, or call 1-800-FDA-1088. Use DUPIXENT exactly as prescribed by your healthcare provider. It’s an injection given under the skin (subcutaneous injection). Your healthcare provider will decide if you or your caregiver can inject DUPIXENT. Do not try to prepare and inject DUPIXENT until you or your caregiver have been trained by your healthcare provider. In children 12 years of age and older, it’s recommended DUPIXENT be administered by or under supervision of an adult. In children 6 months to less than 12 years of age, DUPIXENT should be given by a caregiver. Please see accompanying full Prescribing Information including Patient Information. INDICATIONS DUPIXENT is a prescription medicine used: • to treat adults and children 6 months of age and older with moderate-to-severe eczema (atopic dermatitis or AD) that is not well controlled with prescription therapies used on the skin (topical), or who cannot use topical therapies. DUPIXENT can be used with or without topical corticosteroids. It is not known if DUPIXENT is safe and effective in children with atopic dermatitis under 6 months of age. • with other asthma medicines for the maintenance treatment of moderate-to-severe eosinophilic or oral steroid dependent asthma in adults and children 6 years of age and older whose asthma is not controlled with their current asthma medicines. DUPIXENT helps prevent severe asthma attacks (exacerbations) and can improve your breathing. DUPIXENT may also help reduce the amount of oral corticosteroids you need while preventing severe asthma attacks and improving your breathing. DUPIXENT is not used to treat sudden breathing problems. It is not known if DUPIXENT is safe and effective in children with asthma under 6 years of age. • with other medicines for the maintenance treatment of chronic rhinosinusitis with nasal polyposis (CRSwNP) in adults whose disease is not controlled. It is not known if DUPIXENT is safe and effective in children with chronic rhinosinusitis with nasal polyposis under 18 years of age. • to treat adults and children 1 year of age and older with eosinophilic esophagitis (EoE), who weigh at least 33 pounds (15 kg). It is not known if DUPIXENT is safe and effective in children with eosinophilic esophagitis under 1 year of age, or who weigh less than 33 pounds (15 kg). • to treat adults with prurigo nodularis (PN). It is not known if DUPIXENT is safe and effective in children with prurigo nodularis under 18 years of age.

Read PART 1 here
 
Erik only emerged from his room at around noon the next day with puffy eyes and red marks and bruises on his face. He dragged his legs and hung his head as he moved.
Once he’d gotten something to eat, I waved him into my room and closed the door.
“Erik, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Why did you barricade your window with a table, chair, and wardrobe?”
“Uh, never mind that. This Old Henriksen guy. Did he get eaten by the Great Eel God in the past?”
“Nick, I really don’t want to talk about that right now. I don’t even want to think about Storålens natt anymore.” He sighed.
“I know, Erik, I’m really sorry. I just need to know this.”
“He got regurgitated during the festival, but that was a long time ago. Maybe before I was born, or at least when I was still a baby.”
“Did you see him before he stopped showing up in Maelstrom?”
“I barely remember. Think so. Lots of unkempt hair. Kept scratching himself.”
“Right, thank you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Pay him a visit.” I slung my bag onto my shoulders.
“You can’t be serious. He’s…probably dead or something.” Erik shook his head in disbelief.
“Won’t know until we actually look.”
“It could be dangerous, especially for a newcomer. You could get stopped.”
“Then come with me.”
He looked down at the floor.
“Erik, this is our chance to really uproot all this. Expose Storålens natt.”
He shook his head. “This festival has been running every year for centuries, ever since my ancestors first settled here. It’s not being stopped anytime soon.”
“We can just take the first step. Just visit Old Henriksen. Will you come with me?”
He placed his face into his hand, pacing in a circle. Then, he looked up and sighed. “You have a way with words, Nick. Let’s go.”
Heading out his door, we quickly headed up the terraces, Erik leading and allowing us to avoid anyone who would stop me. Several people watched us from windows, but nobody actually approached us.
It took a while, but we finally arrived at the top of the hill.
“Goddamn, I’d never leave my home either if this was the climb back.” I said, panting hard and wiping buckets worth of sweat off my forehead. I looked out over the rest of the village, at the completed festival square and the boats out on the calm blue water. For a second, I saw a massive snaking shape under the surface, just like I had on my arrival, but it vanished in the next moment. Was that the fabled Great Eel God?
Rubbing my eyes, I turned my attention back to Old Henriksen’s place. This house was old. The red paint was flaking off, the windows were boarded up, and the doorknob was entirely rusted. I tried it. Locked.
“If we kick it down, people will hear and tell the village chief.” I said.
“Don’t worry, I know a little trick.” He gave me a sly grin and pulled what looked to be a piece of metal wire, which he inserted into the keyhole.
“Is that a lockpicking wire? Erik, you’re naughtier than I thought.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” He giggled and worked away at the door. After about a minute of finicking and under the breath curses, I heard one final click and Erik turned the doorknob.
An overwhelming smell hit us immediately upon entry. I’d been in old buildings before, slept in them even. They have a strong musty stale smell to them. Old Henriksen’s house was on another level entirely. It was putrid rot that wormed its way down my throat. I gagged, as did Erik, as we tried to hold in our vomit. The rancid stench was unbelievable.
All the furniture were still in their proper places, untouched by any signs of struggle or human inhabitation. A thick layer of dust covered everything from the plates to the floor, which etched our shoeprints as we walked.
Erik put a handkerchief to his nose and I made do with the sleeve of my arm. Peeking into the lone bedroom, his bed was unmade, and a hole in the roof had been letting in rainwater, turning it into a grimy brown sponge for filthy water. Whatever the case, Old Henriksen had not been in this room in a long, long time.
“Nick, come here.” I followed Erik back out into the main room, where he pointed at a trapdoor in the corner. He leaned down and pulled it open. Unlocked. A ladder led down into darkness. We looked at each other.
“I have to go down to check.” I quickly said before he could express any doubts. “You can stay up here if you want.”
“I’m coming with you.”
The ladder shook and creaked with each step down I took, but it didn’t go down very far at all. I stepped on the dirt floor, putting my hands on my knees and gagging in a desperate attempt not to vomit. The revolting odour was even worse down here, packed into this small underground space and crowding out the breathable air.
I heard Erik come down behind me. He lit a candle, illuminating a small portion of the musty basement. We crept forward into the main room, lined with old shelves filled with various tools and cans. The ground was sticky with something. Our shoes squelched with each step.
A strange hissing groan came from just ahead, making both of us jump. I could hear something shifting, grinding against the ground. We stepped closer into the centre of the room, and that was when we saw it.
There was something long on the ground about the width of a large plastic bottle, occasionally squirming as we got closer.
“Oh my god.” I muttered.
“What is it?” Erik’s hands were shaking in terror.
“Find one end.” We followed it carefully as it snaked across to one end of the basement, and there we saw what it looked like at one end.
It was Old Henriksen, there was no doubt. He become long enough to stretch like rope across the basement. His skin was loose like torn clothes, covered in thousands of massive rotting ulcers and black sores, oozing fetid necrotic fluid onto the basement floor and coating it in a thin layer.
The top part of him ended in his oblong skull, but his skin had gotten so loose that his face had entirely detached, lying in a messy heap half a metre away. One eye on the side of his face not lying in his own rotting flesh goop looked up at us. He had no iris, just a small black pupil in his white beady eyes. He opened his mouth, where his few remaining teeth had turned razor sharp, and made the same hissing groan we heard moments earlier.
I felt something slowly wrap around my calf and let out a high-pitched shriek, leaping up and stomping on it. Old Henriksen hissed at me, and I looked down to see pencil-thin rubbery fingers as long as my legs retreating, attached to arms similarly disproportionately long. They were coiled all round the room, one even pooled in a corner like a heap of rope.
“Where’s his other end?” I asked. Erik nodded and we went along by his candlelight, following his sore-filled body with skin pooling off, until we reached the opposite corner of it. A shelf filled with heavy paint cans had toppled and practically shattered his legs. What was left was actively decomposing while he was alive, releasing even more of the septic stench. As much as his long eel-like body squirmed, the heavy shelf remained pinned over him.
“He must have gotten trapped down here and just kept growing and growing.”
“For…my whole life?” Erik gasped in horror. “How’s he not died of thirst yet?”
We walked back across to his head, where I had Erik lift the candle as high as he could. The ceiling was cracked in placed, and even know, the filth-water from his bedroom was slowly leaking through the cracks and dripping down into the basement, right into his open mouth.
“I-I can’t believe it.” Erik gripped onto one shoulder to support as he held his head in the other. “I’m getting lightheaded.”
“Alright, we’re getting out of here.” As Erik turned, I noticed Old Henriksen’s mouth moving. It sounded like a word.
“Henriksen? Did you say something?”
“Eeeee…” He groaned.
“Yes?”
“Itchy…” He scratched at a black wound the size of a basketball, fingernails digging into the rotting flesh and ripping it up.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Hungry…” I felt his other hand suddenly grab me and shove me towards him.
“Erik!” I cried out. I violently wrenched at Henriksen’s fingers, but despite his thin limbs, he was freakishly strong. He yanked me towards his face, where his mouth hung open. Erik rushed over, pulling at Old Henriksen’s arm, but he couldn’t overpower him either.
“My bag! Take his photo!”
“Now?”
“Just do it!” I screamed, shoving a shoe into his mouth and stomping on his loose skin. Erik unzipped my backpack and pulled my camera free.
“This button?”
Old Henriksen sunk his teeth into my sole, and I could feel the very tip of his fangs stab into my socks.
“Yes!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Now!”
Erik took aim and clicked, briefly engulfing Old Henriksen and me in a blinding flash. His pupil constricted immediately and he let go, letting out an unholy half-hiss, half-shriek as he raked at his eyeballs with his fingers. Erik grabbed me by the hand, and we bolted towards the ladder, scrambling up it as fast as our bodies allowed us to. We slammed the trapdoor shut and rushed out of the house, coughing the last of the awful fumes out.
Fresh sea air filled our lungs again and it was like ambrosia to us. We gasped and took deep inhales, clearly any dizziness we had. Breathing heavily, we sat down on the front steps of the house, trying to wrap our heads around what the hell we just saw.
“Old Henriksen. He…he’s what people who got regurgitated are turning into?” Erik asked, incredulity in his voice as he passed my camera back to me.
“They’re not just growing taller. They’re turning into human eels.” Erik buried his face in his hands, trying to make sense of it all. “They never told us anything about that.”
“What do you think happens to those the Great Eel God swallows?”
He didn’t reply.
“I’m going to get evidence about the festival.” I told him. “You can join me if you like.”
“I’m going home.”
“Erik…”
“You saw it yourself. My mom either gets eaten or she starts turning into one of those things. I don’t want to think about this anymore.” Erik got up and trudged off slowly back down the hill.
It didn’t matter. I’d do it with or without him.
 
I waited until the Sun vanished behind the western hill and darkness slowly fell onto Maelstrom once more.
Yet this time, it wasn’t the same omnipresent blanket of night. The festival square lit up, lanterns blazing, bonfires in braziers lining the sides of the square. Blazing torches adorned the open-air towers, each with one particularly tall villager standing there beating a drum. It lit up like a sole beacon in the darkness of Maelstrom and the surrounding forests.
Processions of villagers began to drift towards the festival square like moths to a flame. They mostly wore their usual clothes, but each carried a light source – handheld lanterns, fiery torches, the odd flashlight. Other villagers watched from the same or higher terraces.
I spotted the village chief standing before the raised platform. The tall man was dressed in a purple robe that glinted in the light of the flames around him. Before long a crowd had gathered, and the chief started talking to them, though I couldn’t make out the words from where I was standing.
A loud, deep, groaning call came from the sea, shaking the foundations of the village houses and vibrating my very bones. Maelstrom fell dead silent, all eyes staring at the coast.
Seawater began creeping in, slowly turning from abnormal tide into a full-scale of the coastal region. Everything not nailed down was swept away as water rushed down every street and alley. Then, something absolutely gargantuan emerged from the sea. I could see only its silhouette from here but it dwarfed the houses around it. Not caring about them, the giant eel pushed itself onto land, scraping across the slightly flooded ground and smashing straight through the first house it touched.
I could feel my hands trembling in sheer amazement at what I was witnessing. It continued dragging itself for a while, crushing houses and shoving the debris aside until there was practically a wall of smashed furniture and devastated walls surrounding it. With a great groan, the eel lifted its front section up and flopped forward, crossing half the coastal town in one move.
It landed with a massive crashing noise, shaking the ground beneath my feet. Hundreds of houses crumbled apart like a house of cards, crushed beneath its massive weight. It began its climb up the side of the hill towards the terrace. The entire place shook. Rocks dislodged and tumbled down the slope. Even as it continued pushing up the terrain, more and more of its massive, elongated body slithered out of the water. It must have been well over a hundred metres long.
At last, it reached the festival square. It rested its head onto the velvet-covered platform, fit rather snugly with the wooden roof above it and bent, angular pillars all around. Finally, it stopped moving and all was still in Maelstrom.
Taking the opportunity, I began to descend the terrace layers, running down the steep staircases. I could see the village chief and several other abnormally tall villagers approached it, splashing it with buckets of water. Other villagers began to dance and wave banners before it, casting shadows onto the eyes of the silent god-beast.
Finally, I arrived at the terrace where Erik’s home was located, one step up from the festival square. Finally close enough, I could get a good look at this eel god. It appeared to have…human skin? Pale, loose, wet skin hung from its body and pooled on the edges of the platform. It was absolutely covered in massive rotting wounds and sores. It opened its mouth wide, and from within I could spot more putrid oozing ulcers and disgusting gums lined with sharp fangs.
One of the chief’s tall assistants nodded and walked straight into its mouth, taking care to avoid the teeth. I thought he was about to stroll right down its throat too, but the eel god lifted its tongue and flung him off his feet. With a gulp, he vanished right down the monster’s throat without a sound.
The village chief made another call, and this time a regular-looking woman climbed in and was practically swallowed immediately too.
This was it. What I needed. I slung my bag onto one shoulder and pulled the camera out. Zooming in, I waited for the next person. In came a tall woman, who bowed to the Great Eel God before stepping in.
No, I had to get a photo with a regular-looking person or someone could get suspicious about fakery.
Footsteps and talking spectators began to approach me.
Shit. Hurry up!
One man, dressed in rags and with a white bandana around his head, carefully took his clothes off and handed them to one of the village chief’s assistant before he stepped into its mouth.
The footsteps closed in.
I clicked the button.
The bright flash enveloped the entire festival square.
The Great Eel God’s pupils immediately constricted.
Dozens of heads turned to look straight at me.
I felt my blood run cold.
The eel let out a deafening hissing call of pain and smashed its jaws shut. I heard the sound of screaming and snapping bones as it swallowed its prey. The village chief backed off in surprise as the furious eel god flung its head upwards, smashing the wooden roof above it into a million splinters that came raining down. Screeching ever louder, it pushed itself forward, opened its mouth, and enveloped three of the nearest villagers in one gulp, shredding one of them on its teeth. Blood spewed from its mouth as it swallowed them.
It swiped its head to one side, flinging several people off the square and sending the fiery braziers toppling off. Then it appeared to tense up and cracked its own body like a whip. Its lower half swept across half the coastal village in seconds. Houses were ripped off their foundations and broke to pieces. A tsunami of debris and the eel’s body tore through streets and boats alike. Dozens of people tried to flee before being enveloped and vanishing into the carnage.
Debris flung high into the air. Chunks crashed into the hillside. One massive metal piece landed on Old Henriksen’s house and collapsed it down into the basement.
At the square, the eel god continued its feast, snatching up villagers and devouring them. Yet they didn’t flee. Instead, they bowed, clasping their hands, and silently awaited their turn.
But not all. The village chief glared straight at me and broke into a run, scaling up the terrace steps with frightening speed. I felt my entire body freeze instantly as the tall man approached me with nothing but murder in his eyes, but I pried myself from my spot and broke into a run.
I could hear his footsteps. He was closing in. Closer and closer.
Thud!
I heard him cry out in pain and fall. Turning my head, I saw the chief lying on the dirt path, one hand on his bloodied head and a large sharp rock lying beside him. Another rock cracked him on the chin, and I looked up to see Sigrid on the next terrace up with an armful of stones as ammo, hurling them at him.
“Go, run!” She yelled at me.
“Sigrid!” He roared, getting to his feet and running up after her. Tucking my camera into my bag, I continued to sprint away as well, pushing past a woman in my way. I barely made it much further before I collided straight into Erik. We both fell to the ground, groaning.
“Nick! W-what’s happening?”
“Your god’s pissed off! It’s eating everyone!” I pointed over, where the eel had coiled around the entire festival square and was picking through the last of the villagers awaiting their eternal prize.
“My mom!” He screamed, pointing behind me. I turned round to see the woman who had just gone past me, currently scampering at full speed towards the festival square. “Stop her!”
Both of us scrambled up, chasing after her. She ran and ran, darting across the wooden boards that led to the now-abandoned open-air towers. Picking up a drumstick, she beat on the drums, yelling down inaudibly at the Great Eel God.
Erik pulled ahead of me and ran over onto the tower as well, grabbing onto his mother’s arm.
“Mom, stop it! Please!” He screamed. She yelled back, tugging away from him and slapping at his face. As I started crossing over the wooden board, I looked down to see the eel god bringing its head back and swinging it like a bat. One pillar snapped with a thunderous cracking noise. The tower violently leaned onto an angle, sending Erik’s mother tumbling over the side.
Erik leapt right off as fast as lightning, one arm grabbing onto the wooden railing and the other clutching her forearm tightly as she dangled over the festival square. He caught his foot on the edge of the railing on the way down and I heard an audible crack and an agonized cry from him.
The eel god pulled back once more and slammed into the tower again. Erik’s fingers slipped and he fell. Literally throwing myself forward, I slammed into the railing and caught his hand with my right, both of us clutching tightly. Pain immediately ripped through my shoulder in protest from the sheer weight dangling from it.
Down below, the eel god opened its massive bloody maw. Its loose skin rippled as it roared, waiting for its sacrifices. Dangling several metres up, Erik’s mother struggled to land in it, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Erik! Let go of me, now!” She screamed.
“No! I’m not going to!”
“Let go!”
“Mom! Stop this. Just come back home with me.” He pleaded.
“He’ll will take me to his eternal kingdom.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Let go of me, Erik.”
“Please.” Tears were streaming down his face. “Don’t abandon me too. Don’t leave me alone. Please don’t leave me alone!”
“Erik…”
“I’ll have no one left if you go! Don’t leave me too!” He screamed from the very bottom of his heart.
“Erik!” I cried out. I could feel his fingers slipping from my grip. My shoulder screamed in sheer white-hot agony. “I…can’t hold on much longer.”
The eel god snapped its jaws impatiently, waiting for its food.
“I’m not letting go!” He shouted.
“Erik,” his mother said gently, a calm look on her face, “it’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.” He desperately shook his head.
“Listen. You still have your life ahead of you. It’s okay.”
“I’m not letting you go, mom!” Erik wailed, his voice going hoarse from the strain.
“Erik. I’m just going to see your father again. I’ve missed him so much.”
“Erik, please!” I begged, clinging onto him with the tip of my fingers, the two positioned right above the snapping jaws of the eel.
“…goodbye.” Erik whimpered.
“I love you.” She smiled.
And he let go.
She fell for just a second, and then she was gone, engulfed by the Great Eel God.
With the weight lessened, he gripped my hand with his other arm, and I pulled harder than I ever had in my life until we both collapsed on the floor of the precariously leaning tower.
“Is the god going to puke them out now?” I asked.
“He should.”
We watched as the Great Eel God raised its head and screeched one last time, and it turned and began slithering sideways through the wrecked village back into the sea without regurgitating a single person.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He wiped his tear-stained face. “I don’t think I can stand.”
I looked down to see his right leg had swollen considerably and turned black-blue with massive bruising.
“Alright, careful.” I wrapped one arm of him over my shoulders and we very carefully clambered up the sloped tower floor and onto the terrace.
Before us stood the village chief, blood profusely leaking from his forehead. He stared daggers at us and in his massive hands he held a huge woodcutter’s axe.
He opened his mouth to speak or snarl or maybe curse us before he hacked us to death, but I interrupted him before he could.
“Chief. Are you going to keep your god waiting?”
His head turned, watching the Great Eel God crawling halfway to the sea, sweeping houses and bloodied corpses with it.
The village chief dropped his axe with a metallic clatter and ran off into the ruined village after it.
 
Dawn broke on a brand-new day for Maelstrom.
Erik and I sat wrapped in a blanket, him leaning into my shoulder, softly crying at the utter carnage that had ensued in his hometown. Different emotions swept across me. Guilt, relief, despondence. I really felt like I had to do it. To finally expose the cultish religion that had seized hold of the town for the past few hundred years. I’d never expected such devastation to occur.
Local country police officers swept through the town, while paramedics and firefighters worked to help survivors and find anyone buried in the rubble. The flashing red and blue lights alarmed me at first, but nothing emerged from the sea after us.
A paramedic had applied a splint to Erik’s fractured shin, and I’d told disbelieving police officers to get divers or a submarine to look into what was underwater. Right now, I could spot people in wetsuits wading out of the water after a dive.
Elsewhere, I could see Sigrid embracing her family as they were taken out on stretchers, hurt but alive.
“Erik.”
“Nick…I don’t know what to do now.”
“You could come with me.”
“With you?”
“If you don’t want to stay here, that is. I don’t know what Maelstrom’s future holds, but me and Addison, we’ll be going upstate. And what I’m saying is, I’d be happy to have you join me. Join us.”
He was quiet.
“It’s up to you.”
“I think…I just want to sleep for now.” He lay his head fully on my shoulder, and I carefully wrapped a hand around his.
A police detective came up to me, dressed in a drenched coat. All colour had drained from his face.
“You’re the one who called us to check under the water?”
“Yeah. What did your divers see under there?”
His teeth were chattering. “This information will go nowhere. You’re not to speak about this to anyone.”
“What did you see? What’s inside the water?”
But he didn’t answer. He walked away, shaking his head and staring at the sky, as if asking the heavens for an explanation.
Holding onto Erik even tighter, I could only wonder what had become of those eaten by the Great Eel God.
   
Author's note: IceOriental123 here! Hope you enjoyed this kaiju story!
This turned out to be my longest short story yet, and definitely took a lot of work.
You can check out my other stories in my subreddit at this link.
The subreddit's still WIP but the story list in the link is updated.
Thanks for reading!

26 Female, 5’1, 138lb, none smoker. Takes 10 mg vyvanse. Born with one kidney.
1 week ago I discovered this hard lump on my wrist.
I have had swollen lymph nodes in both my armpits consistently for about 5 years. More swollen in right armpit. Compared to the left. Got them biopsied in 2018. Was told I could possibly have Castlemans disease. just got a new biopsy which came out to be nothing more than reactive lymph nodes. Showing they are clearly still very swollen. Due to them only getting a little sample they said they can’t dufuntivly rule out anything or diagnosis castlmans disease/ lymphoma. But they are super worried. I constantly feel sick, tired and weak. Doctor tell me I’m fine. It’s just something I’ll have to live with. Last 4 weeks I have been dealing with numbness and tingling in my whole right arm. And server back aches. Last week a hard lump that feels like a bone showed up on my wrist? It does not hurt. When I push on it hard it gives off a little bit of pain. Is it probably just a cyst? I can’t get in to see my doctor for another week. I’m left handed and this lump is on my right hand, so this is not my dominant hand.
https://ibb.co/DQzKSXr

I (32 female, 160 lbs, non smoker, non drinker) had a ct of my chest done, they were specifically looking for a PE. It came back completely normal but I have multiple nodules and masses I can feel on my rib cage. My doctor felt then too and sent me for an ultrasound today and the tech said they don’t look at bones so she couldn’t look at any of the lumps. I have a mammogram coming up in a few weeks but I’m wondering which test would be best for looking at the rib cage specifically.
My bloodwork was relatively normal, my hemoglobin count was a bit high, but other than that everything was within range the last couple of blood draws.
I keep getting bounced around but my health is declining. I’m sleeping a lot (4-6 hrs/day) which isn’t normal for me, I’m usually active and can’t be at all. I’m in a lot of pain around my rib cage and have hardened lymph nodes below my armpit and along my groin area. I feel like I’m slipping through the cracks of a broken healthcare system. What would you do next?

2 weeks post op from 330cc under the muscle high profile. Right now I have no pain other than left side pain around the end of my incision (towards my armpit) it feels like it could be my ribs almost. It mainly hurts with certain movements. No redness, swelling, bruising. Everything looks great. but the pain isn’t getting any better maybe even worse and has been going on for almost a week. I get worried my incision isn’t healing good but I can’t see it through the tape. I’m assuming it’s all normal just curious if anyone else has experienced this? Or I’m possibly overdoing it. I have 2 kids and I’m trying my best to be extremely careful.

Hello! I’m a 25F and I have Primary Ciliary Dyskinesia and bronchiectasis. I got my first CT in a long while in Dec of 2020, and results say “There is a questionable 17 x 8 mm pretracheal nodule in the superior mediastinum just above the left brachiocephalic vein (6/23)” . They noted three other nodules, but all were under 10 mm. My pulmonologist recommended a follow up CT, which I got in March of 2022, but it stated “Previously noted superior mediastinal lymph node/nodule is not well assessed due to streak artifact from dense contrast in the vein”. Other nodules were relatively stable in size.
I recently moved from Chicago to Texas and am getting set up with a new pulmonologist down here. I was putting together old paperwork as background for a new doc/ insurance when I saw in some notes that my doctor had mentioned a repeat scan, but we had never gotten around to scheduling it. It’s a pain in the ass with my insurance to get set up with a specialist down here, but is this even worth requesting a sooner visit? I got a referral to a pulmonary resident in a few months, but I’m kind of hoping to see someone who is more experienced. My overall health and lung health has deteriorated over the last year and a half and I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. This lung function decrease coincided with a pretty rapid weight gain (about 40 lbs within 3-5 months). I have no idea if that could be related at all, it was just unusual for my body as I have never before been remotely overweight. Last background I should mention is that I, idiotically, have a periodic history with smoking/ vaping. Nicotine vapes and very rare cigarette use were intermittent, mostly when I was a teenager. Recently, though, I’ve been reading about how unregulated THC vapes can affect lung function, and I have had an unfortunate variety of those from a variety of sources within the last 5 years. I was diagnosed with PCD less than a year ago so we were still trying out new treatments when I left my old doc. Thanks so much for all you guys do, sorry if I included extraneous info.

I don't have any specific questions, just wanted to share my experience so far in case anyone else can relate.
I'm 38, last September had a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound due to persistent pain in my left breast. I'll post those results below.
A couple of weeks ago I noticed a very subtle dimple/dent on my left breast when I raised my arm. The dent is just below the nipple, and the previous pain was above the nipple.
My PCP ordered an MRI, which I'll have on June 6.
This past Sunday I also started having persistent pain in my left armpit. The intensity changes, but the place doesn't. I can't feel any swollen lymph nodes or lumps anywhere.
No other symptoms. I had severe rib pain on both sides last summer, I thought due to a bad cough. Pain lasted for months. I had several x-rays which were all clear. That pain is gone now.
Here are the results from my mammogram and US in September 2023. I'm pretty worried about the dense breast and ductal dilation, but seems to be nothing.
DENSITY: Breast tissue is heterogeneously dense. DENSITY PERCENTAGE: 51% - 75% fibroglandular.
Bilateral Breast Findings: The breasts are heterogeneously dense, which may obscure small masses. No dominant mass, skin thickening, nipple retraction, architectural distortion, or suspicious microcalcifications.
Directed sonography was obtained at the site of focal pain at the upper outer quadrant of the left breast. There is dense breast tissue in this region. No cyst or mass. Incidentally noted is mild to moderate subareolar ductal dilatation, likely physiologic.
IMPRESSION: No mammographic evidence of malignancy. No sonographic finding at the site of breast pain. Recommend clinical follow-up. Return to imaging as clinically indicated.
BIRADS CATEGORY: 2 - Benign Finding(s)
RECOMMENDATION: Recommend clinical follow-up for focal breast pain. Return to imaging as clinically indicated. At the minimum, return for yearly screening mammography at age 40.