Sta.sh
Maggots.
Coiling, writhing, shivering slops.
They choke and gnaw at his life, devouring everything yet omitting his body from their teeth, avowing through their undulating language his audience for the feast.
The man, free of the maggots from his skin, beholds the worms wriggling and dancing through his food, inbetween his pressed shirts, inside his furniture.
They're everywhere.
Engorging their swollen white selves 'til they've burst.
Distended stomachs bloat throughout the little snakes' numbers, the man ever hungry.
Even when he dies, and he will before long, no maggot will lay tongue on his corpse.
He's special.
Individual.
Distinguished.
He will not be touched.
No lesson would be learned.
Nor would one be taught.
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This drabble's pretty broadly set, so it could be molded into zombies, mental disorders, and other things like that.
Personally, I wrote it with the thought of rich men being undermined by their money.
Y'know, how money can take over and change everything, remove the nourishment that is working and achieving necessities through sweating hard work, and eventually leave its owner starving for an actual and honest life instead of ease and unrealistic luxury.
/of course I wrote this in 10 minutes while scrambling around getting ready for work, so the underlying message could be pretty foggy ;;;
Plus the ambiguity leaves it open to interpretation.