2.b.viii
“So where is
he?” Mr. Jones asked.
“He was right
here,” said Tanya. “Look. His tools and charts and notes are still
laying around on the floor over there.
Hey! Hey douche. Where are you?”
Tanya kicked
open the only stall door that was closed.
The D.O.S. was sitting on the toilet, a look of pleasant comfort on his
face, pants resting on his shoes.
“Oh god!” Mr.
Jones cried out. “You said he wasn’t–”
“Hey!” the
D.O.S. shouted, snapping out of his blissful trance. “Occupado!
Occupado!”
“Pull up you
pants,” Tanya said. “We need to have a
little chat about your business practices.”
“First,” the
D.O.S. said, “we don’t discuss corporate policy with out guests, the press, the
competition, or our employees. And two,
the thing I need to have requires that my pants be down, and from the aggressive
sensation in my bowels, it’s not at all little.”
“That’s
nasty.”
Mr. Jones
shook his head, took a calming breath, and then said, “Listen up douche bag
we–”
“Why is
everyone saying that today?” the D.O.S. said.
“We know
you’re harboring an enemy of the people and we intend–”
“What I’m
harboring is a couple of tacos, last night’s cheese pizza, some bear claws and
a pack of corn nuts,” the D.O.S. said.
“Dude. Sick,” Tanya said.
“As for ‘enemy
of the people’ if you’re still here when this bad boy crowns I imagine you’ll
be at odds with whatever comes out.”
“Okay, stop
it. Seriously. Or I’m gonna throw up,” Tanya said, backing
away.
There was a
moment, silent and still, where neither of the bathroom occupants spoke or
moved. A frozen piece of time in which
those involved weighed their options.
Finally, the D.O.S. shrugged, hunched his shoulders, and started
grunting.
“Get him off
the toilet. Quick!” Mr. Jones shouted,
jumping into the stall and grabbing the D.O.S.’s arms.
“Not on your
life,” said Tanya.
“If he shits
The Greed into the sewer system we’ll lose his trail.”
“Fine by me.”
“I need your
help.”
Tanya gritted
her teeth and then lunged forward, clamping her hands around the D.O.S.’s
ankles. She shook her head violently and
shouted, “Why do I gotta get the legs?”
A symphony of
grunts and groans, accompanied by squelchy, slurping, sucking noises, echoed
through the bathroom as the combatants strained and flexed.
Amidst the
clamor a soft, timid voice chimed, “Is the bathroom ready for–”
But the old
woman proffering the question never finished her inquiry. Her breath caught in her throat and she
covered her mouth with a white gloved hand.
She could not fathom what would cause such terrible noises. It sounded like an orgy of fantastically painful
bowel movements. When she saw three
pairs of legs protruding in spasms from one stall she bolted from the room,
eyes pinched shut, hands waving frantically at the side of her head.