So this is it. The day you’ve all been waiting for. George Michael is safe and sound and stoned behind the wheel again and pedestrians everywhere can hitchhike to Hampstead once again. Unless of course they’re undercover police who piss in public and promise handcuffs and harm. And not the pleasurable kind, but the variety which helps The Sun scream paedophile and point with crooked fingers. But that’s another story, namely involving aged male celebrities who look like they might ejaculate. Without warning. Like Go Go Inspector Erector. Anyway, enough of that, today brings the first installment of the short stories written by our fine contributors based on one of your submitted titles. The first title was ‘Needle in The Staff Toilet’ and here is Mr Anthony Self’s tale of tank tops and torture. Enjoy. If you do, leave comments and spread the word, if you don’t, we apologise, for nothing. Ta ta.
NEEDLE IN THE STAFF TOILET
by Anthony Self
Michael aimed his piss against the side of the porcelain bowl; worried that the man in the cubicle next door would hear the infantile-like sploshing noise emitting from his own compartment. He was apprehensive about urinating in the middle of the basin. A man’s toilet noise says a lot about the man, he thought to himself.
To his knowledge, this was the only workplace where no small-talk in the toilets was allowed. He wasn’t sure if this was a mandated rule, or a macabre unspoken code amongst his colleagues, but for whatever reason, no man spoke once they had entered the staff washroom. At first Michael had thought this odd; he’d tried to speak with one of the team representatives once whilst he was washing his hands, but each question he asked was met with a polite smile. His co-worker quickly gave a final nod and without saying a word shuffled out the door awkwardly.
The only sounds in the small, dimly lit lavatory were the occasional click-clacking of phones, noses being blown on tissues, grunts of pushing faeces out of bodies and the arbitrary sigh of relief following once ejection had been accomplished. There was less grunting on Beef Chilli Tuesday however; usually Michael would hear a quick ‘Oh fuck’ followed by sloppy smattering noises on the porcelain. So it was inevitable to listen to another man urinating, really – what with being able to do little else. Michael had noticed that some made noises whilst pissing – some whistled tunes, some ‘dum-de-dum-de-dummed’ whilst others sighed inwardly for long periods of time, probably contemplating where it had all gone wrong in their lives. Some even spoke to themselves, muttering incoherently under their breath.
Michael would often listen to the sound of someone pissing and try to guess the girth of their penis. Some sounded like they were simply standing over the toilet with a jug of water, tipping it all in one into the dark hole, others had tentative spurts, dribbling a bit, followed by a few seconds of short bursts, then back to dribbling. Michael thought that maybe staff members were actually communicating in the toilets via urine Morse code. One day, Michael had the curious realisation that if he was listening to the sound of urination in the cubicles next to him, then surely the people on the other side of the compartment were also listening to him…that’s when he decided to start aim for the side of the bowl.
Finishing off, he gave four solid shakes and was about to pull his zipper up when something happened.
Michael had been stung before on a holiday to Italy. Whilst he’d been lazily sleeping on a hammock, a wasp had mindlessly landed on his foot and nestled in between the strap of his flip-flop and his third toe. When Michael stirred awake and moved his feet, he’d crushed the wasp between his digits and had received a barbed response for his ignorant execution of the insect. Three hours later his foot had swelled into a bloated, red sausage.
This is what flashed momentarily in Michael’s mind when he felt the same biting pain emanating from his ankle. He glanced down to see the source of this sudden sting. He was initially shocked to see a hand by his feet, outstretched from the gap from the adjacent cubicle, cradling a hypodermic needle. As his brain sent the necessary signals to his eyes, Michael opened his mouth and produced a banshee-like shriek; he noticed that the owner of the hand was pressing down on the plunger of the needle, sending something shooting into his bloodstream. The liquid inside the cylinder was black.
As the silence of the toilet was broken by Michael’s cry, the hand shot back through the gap, almost as if it was startled. Michael screamed more when his brain realised that the needle was hanging limply from his ankle. He spun round, clasping at the lock on the door. Suddenly an icy chill coursed from his leg up to his back. The dim lights of the toilet stall seemed to shimmer into a brilliant white light and he experienced a plethora of emotions within five seconds; rage, shame, clarity, jealously and joy. His attempt to open the stall was fruitless, as his body slumped to the floor and darkness enveloped him.
When Michael awoke he quickly realised he wasn’t in the staff toilets. Industrial pipes, corrugated iron and metal sheets surrounded him. He then realised that he was bound in an upright position, with various chains wrapped round him and welded to the walls to prevent movement. His lips had been surgically fastened around the mouth of a tube pipe. He tried to move his mouth, but felt searing pain with any minute movement.
With watering eyes, he followed the tendril-like pipe that his mouth had been fastened to as it curved in a U-shape up into the ceiling. He uttered a small whimper as a motor started up from somewhere behind him. Some of the pipes around the room jettisoned steam and he felt minute vibrations in his mouth as he realised something was coming down the pipe. Coming down the pipe and into his mouth.
The liquid gushed into the back of his throat and he gagged instantly. There were malleable items in the liquid too, but he blocked that from his mind. Yellow rivulets of liquid started to trickle from the tiny gaps of where his mouth was fastened to the pipe to his chin; and shortly the pressure of whatever atrocious liquids pumping down from the pipe into Michael’s mouth were too much for his mouth to handle. With puffed cheeks, piss and shit were bursting from every perceivable like a broken pressure cooker – he couldn’t scream, but instead articulated a deep, animalistic grunting noise.
Upstairs in the staff toilet, Peter was apprehensive about urinating in the middle of the basin. A man’s toilet noise says a lot about the man, he thought to himself.