He picked up the cork. Wrapped in the red thread was a tiny scrap of paper, the ink faded but legible: "Thanks for unblocking me. I was stuck in there for seven years. —M."
A cork shot out of the drain and skittered across the floor. Not a wine cork. Something denser, blacker, wrapped in a frayed red thread. insinkerator blocked
The soft, wet laughter of something that has finally found its way home. He picked up the cork
Grrr-click. Grrr-click. Hmmmm.