(pack a lunch for this one, Tabermaniacs)
I'm trying to get more goddamn creative about my bloggy titles. I sort of stole this from some movie title that's in the cinemas around here. I have no shitting idea what it's about. It sounded like a pornographic movie title, but I could be wrong.
Hopefully, the subject of this edition of TMTTY will clue some of your more daft sonsabitches as to what's going on. The Phantom Shitter has been unmasked. It's about goddamned time too. I was getting sick of the barrel-sized ass-missiles he was leaving behind.
It started a couple nights ago.
I was busy wiping the bar and scratching my fuck-stick and paste pellets when Jack came up to me, all excited. He threw the empty bottles he'd collected into the can and they broke with a nerve-rattling 'CLINK!'
"Holy shit, son," I said, thumbing a piece of Juicy Fruit into my word hole. "Ease up on the bottle tossing."
"Sorry, Bill," Jack said, doing a dance like he had to piss something fierce. "I was just in the pisser, when I heard something godawful."
My eyes lit up. I gave my case of chronic jock-itch a rest. My balls could be scratched later. If this was going where I thought it was going, all that extra-curricular shit could wait.
"The Phantom Shitter?"
Jack gulped and nodded, still doing the I-really-have-to-piss dance that 3 year olds sometimes do.
"What makes you think so?" I put the towel down, poured Beefcake Murphy his final beer for the night and waved the prick off.
"There's someone screaming in there, kind of like they're giving birth."
This had to be it. I came around the bar like a madman, ignoring the sharp pains racing into my trick knee. This was it. This was my moment in the sun. This was when I was going to get to the bottom of the monster who lay waste (literally) to the bathroom's at my place of employment.
"Jack, my boy," I said with I'm sure a twinkle in my eye. "Let's fucking do this."
I kicked the door to the bathroom open and waited a moment. The stink rolled into Jack and I like a fog of filth. I almost welcomed it, much like a hunter must welcome the signs and trackings of his prey. It definitely smelled like shit. We were on the trail, all right.
"Oh god, help," some poor miserable son of a bitch muttered from the middle stall. A fart thundered from somewhere behind the battered stall door, making the rest of the bathroom quake a bit.
At least it seemed to.Odd,
I thought. Our old buddy usually drops his industrial-sized droppings in the last stall. How curious...
"I can't get it out, for the love of Jesus," the Phantom Shitter exclaimed. I could hear him shuffling around in there, fighting that turd through the much-too-small opening. I couldn't imagine what it was like to try and force something so colossal out of your own body.
"We'll call the paramedics," Jack called out.
I turned and slapped him across the face. He looked at me like a wounded, abused child. I held up one finger, the only thing I could think of to make him stop and wait a minute. We didn't want the goddamn paramedics in here ruining our shot at the big time. No way.
"Oh...it's definitely stuck," the Shitter screeched. "Please send some help."
I decided enough was enough. I puffed up my chest, and got ready to kick the door in. I was used to taking the lead and bringing dangerous, unsavory situations to a close. After all, I was in the Korean War for crissakes.
With a grunt, I kicked the door in, letting it smack against the interior stall wall with a loud BANG! There, standing with his pants around his ankles, was Fred Gustafson.
The Phantom Shitter?
"Oh, man," old Fred groaned. "Thank god."
I looked at the scene. There wasn't a giant log lying in, on, or above the toilet water. A small cloud of yellow indicated that Fred took a piss and that was it. What was
curious, though was was he was doing...to the toilet paper dispenser.
"What are you doing to the toilet paper dispenser, Fred?" I looked down and saw that his manhood had somehow got caught between the 'active' roll of toilet paper and the one up above it, used when the 'active' roll was depleted.
"I was taking a piss, drunk off my ass when I looked down. The bitch was asking for it, man!"
He pulled and tried to free his miserable prick, but it stayed caught. His piss pump was stuck between the two rolls of toilet paper.
"What the fuck," I muttered, slowly putting the scenario together. I'd heard of horny, drunk guys, but this was...
"Ridiculous," Jack said, still holding his red face. "You tried to fuck the toilet paper thing."
Fred groaned. "It looked just like a nice comfortable vagina, guys. Two nice, neat rolls. Close together. You gotta understand. I thought I could slip it in, pump it a few times and be on my way."
I wanted to haul off and kick ol' Fred in the ass for being so stupid, but I didn't want to sully my boot and I didn't want him to get any more stuck than he was. I turned to Jack with a sigh. It seemed we weren't going to crack the Phantom Shitter case that night after all.
"Sorry I slapped you, kid," I apologized. "I guess I over-reacted."
"It's cool, Bill," Jack replied, with a small smile. "Thought we had 'em, huh?"
"Ayuh," I muttered. Then, feeling like a real shit-heel, I asked him to go and call the ambulance. He went off, a little too excited to get out of the men's bathroom.
"You won't tell my wife, will ya?" Fred reached down and gripped his urine pipe, giving it a few good tugs. It was stuck fast.
"Nah," I said, backing out of the stall. "Help is on the way, there, Freddy."
He thanked me and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard the last stall flush. I hadn't realized anyone else was in there. I turned on my heel, and saw a smaller, strange-looking man come out. He made his way to the sink and, looking at me in the corner of his eye, washed his hands.
The hands were small, almost feminine. As if to further prove it, the nails were longer. He looked up into the scratched up mirror and wiped his mouth. His mustache moved a fraction of an inch and when he pulled his hand back, the mustache came off!
This cock-sucker was in disguise!!!
That was when the stink hit me. It wasn't ol' Fred in his stall after all that had made the nuclear war in the bar's shitteria. It was this shifty, crazy son of a bitch.
To confirm my suspicions, I peeked my head into the stall.
There it was. A giant log the size of a telephone pole, lying half into the bowl full of sludge, half out. The Phantom Shitter had struck again and he was standing a mere two feet from me. When he saw that I saw the atrocity he'd left on the toilet seat, he broke into a run, heading for the door.
Now, I'm no marathon runner or an action hero, but I had to catch this vile son of a bitch. No matter what.
I was out the door and after the Phantom, knocking into Molly who had a pitcher of beer on her tray. It went down in a golden shower of beer and glasses broke like we were at some Jew's wedding.
The Phantom ran like a girl, but I was right on his ass, watching as his mangy hair fell off of his head and landed at the foot of some dick-nose dressed in NASCAR shit.
The costume was falling apart. In no time, I would know who the Phantom REALLY was.
He got to the front door without any problem and went around the corner, heading toward the back of the building. I was grunting and wheezing right behind him. I didn't care about my knee, my job or anything else. I was going to catch this prick once and for all.
The Phantom turned the corner and made his last mistake. He stood in the little alcove where we keep the dumpster. The miserable motherfucker was trapped.
I caught up with him and stood there, waiting for him to turn around and face the music.
"You sick son of a bitch," I wheezed. "There's something wrong with you."
"No," the Phantom said as he turned around. "There's something wrong with you, Bill."
Bill? Who the fuck did this dirty bastard think he was. That's Mr. Tabern...
Shit. I looked and saw the Phantom face to face. It wasn't a guy at all, but a woman. A woman I recognized. I wasn't sure until I saw the messed-up eye. If I wasn't mistaken, she'd gotten that injury last Christmas.
No, the Phantom Shitter wasn't some dude. It was...
Shirley.Surely you remember Shirley.
I don't know what happened next. Somehow my eyes got all swimmy, my legs weakened beneath me and I could've sworn I saw ol' Shirley do a backflip and land in the dumpster. After that, everything went dark.
All I know is I woke up in the hospital. Jack was sitting next to my bed.
"You got a concussion," he said, looking at me like I was covered in maggots. "People say they saw you run out of the bathroom and out into the streets. The paramedics brought both you and ol' Fred in. Good thing I called those guys."
I sighed. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. I just know I shouldn't have slapped the kid.
God damn it.