BY TODD HELLINGS
I shit blood for the third time in five hours. A Niagara Falls of plasma and tomato salsa exit the rear of my meat hatch. And not in an orderly manner. My raw and wounded hole reminds me that ballroom dancing will not be in my immediate future.
Through stinging eyes, I glance down between my shaking legs and decide that donating the entire toilet to the American Red Cross might be semi-prudent…and tax deductible. Scrape off yesterday’s brunch clumps, crate up this mini crime scene of raw feculence, and ship it on out. You’ll get used to the aroma.
I’m waltzing with phantoms as my head yields to the laws of gravity. If this really was my closing twirl on the tilt-a-whirl, what an incredibly unsatisfying way to bake sayonara cakes. My ticker-tape parade destined to be of the 2-ply variety. Irony always swings for the fences.
The brown and red speckled bowl carefully studies my ass. It’s a humiliating predicament and I can hear the mocking from down below. Random strands of mucus and intestinal filth turn the inside of my well-worn commode into a kaleidoscopic menagerie. I rule over a porcelain robin’s egg of bad food and even worse intentions.
Resting upon a throne that no sane king would usurp, I detect laughter. A powerful, condescending chuckle bouncing off unwashed walls. The not-so-dapper crapper cackles in tones high above the aquatic cacophony of multiple courtesy flushes. Keep on running is the message. Oh, don’t you worry. It’s my specialty. Bag’s always packed.
No matter how hard my weary brain tries to spin it, this storm isn’t the inevitable byproduct of Hamburger Helper, warm vodka, and the random swallowed pubic hair. Nope, it’s an entirely different kinkajou tapping on my battered undercarriage. If every shallow tide pool is a fool’s errand then my shrimp tempura moment just pulled up to the curb, flung open a rusty door, and whistled with dry lips.
Unlike Elvis the Pelvis, if I expire on the honey canister, it won’t be from constipation without representation. My personal triumvirate of stress, regret, and guilt will do the job. I set the standard by being a highly efficient asshole. Early retirement for me is a hovering hatchet. A brass ring wrapped in barbed wire. For now, the only Fool’s Gold shining brightly belongs to a tattered tube of generic ass cream. Often used to fight fires, it rests in peace on top of the tank. Greasy and creased six times to release every last drop of bum quenching goodness. No elixir left behind. All hands, abandon shit.
As I stuff miles of clean gauze up my throbbing Ansel Adams and seal it in with a thick slug of ointment, the sweat begins to pour. I could taste copper peanuts and Millionaire’s bacon. But it was that sour coating of formaldehyde on the back of my splintering tongue that gave you away. Even with a spinning head, my senses are still on point. I can feel you everywhere. My hair stands in unexpected places.
Fair warning to all invaders: the only crown recognized in this bathroom belongs to me. Sigh…yet here we are. Warning shots ignored. My dominion is not recognized. I’m face to-face with every crab salad fandango in my shitty wheelhouse. There is no royalty or fierce loyalty. All my dirty pigeons have come home to bathe. The shifting flock is just another shitty crock.
The difference between a shower curtain shadow and a featureless silhouette is pretty negligible when shock sets up shop. Both stare me down as my loose spine sways like liquid courage. Another batch of al dente vertebrate left in the pot for far too long. Miles of rotten lobster bisque swirls and gurgles in my ever-tightening gutbucket. I start to shudder again. Hello, spasms my old friend. Balls quickly ascend
All those decades of bad deals and sticky atrocities built up momentum. Gallons of spilled blood slowly coagulated into small batch preserves. Dozens of severed hands and detached feet hibernating in my freezer have finally unionized.
Frostbitten middle fingers extend; blue toes crinkling in unison. Hell, there might still be a bashed in head behind the frozen game hen. And I can hear you all. They knew my zip code the moment I looked them in the eye and pulled the fucking trigger. After years of rattling the cage as a shotgun messiah, my ticket is about to get punched.
The coffee stains and smell of fine ash don’t bother me. Who am I to judge? I’ve ridden in far worse rodeos. Done rotten things that would make Drano in your anus feel refreshing. But none of that matters now. He is here. Striding with cold purpose, judgement tips his hat, smiles, clicks a bottomless mouth of craggy teeth, and glides in from the ever blurring edge of the periphery.
As the channel changes, only one thought spreads across my screaming mind like hillbilly mustard: oh menace, what big incisors you’ve got…
