It smelled sour, sweaty, moist, kinda like a sopping bag of hockey equipment.
It was time that I discovered the source of the smell before things got worse. I had been in denial for too long; I knew there was a good chance that it may have been the remains of the mouse I frying-panned several weeks before. I palmed my ceiling, worried about feeling a “bump,” which I sure enough did.
“Fucking disgusting,” I muttered to myself upon feeling its body.
After donning a pair of gloves, I pulled out the flattened carcass, snapped a picture, and threw it into the lawn where the birds and insects would make good use of it. Good riddance. Easily the most revolting aspect of vandwelling thus far.