There was a time, before I got a respectable job, when I worked as a stock boy, cashier, and all-around bitch boy at a local liquor store. The store was a staple on the block for many years before a new owner bought it and business went downhill fast. The new owner was a real tool who would verbally abuse his workers and even customers on occasion by using vulgar language like "f__k stick" to describe someone. Us workers did not appreciate this, but him being the "boss" and all, there was not much we could do about it.
The store itself was always an utter mess, littered with paper, garbage, dust, and, I'm pretty sure, asbestos. He never cared about the cleanliness of the store because he himself was a filthy disgusting slob of a human being. He came to work unshaven, not showered, and generally smelling like a stale, sweaty gym sock.
The ONE thing he insisted on (sometimes, it seemed, more than on the profitability level of the store itself) was a clean latrine. And by clean, I mean SPOTLESS. The bathroom itself was barely the size of a closet, with no fan, and only a window to air out the stench of a freshly-baked loaf. When you sat on the pot, it was so tight that your legs would be pressed against the walls. We stock boys had to clean the bathroom once a week at least, and it was his idea of a joke to make sure he dropped a raunchy bomb in the bowl right before we did so.
So one night that fat piece of garbage left early and entrusted the store to me and my friend, a fellow stock boy. We had been running up and down the stairs all day carrying wine and other booze to the shelves, and we were exhausted, not to mention we didn't even have the time to take a breather and rest our haunches on that lousy excuse for a poop receptacle. So an idea came to mind. An idea for revenge.
We ordered some sushi, picked it up, and feasted on some spicy tuna rolls until we were bursting at the seams. We had about an hour to go before we closed the store; just enough time to execute our plan, for this would take some time.
Once we easily cleared the store of customers (no one came in there anymore), I stepped up to the plate and hit the john. What came out of me next amused, baffled, stupefied, and ultimately scared me. It was like a fresh butcher-made Italian sweet sausage with fennel -- at least six links worth! Luckily for me, it was a clean getaway, and I only needed one handful of the no-frills sandpaper the boss bought for us to wipe ourselves with to get the job done. I was strangely proud of my child in the toilet, and while leaving a floater of that capacity and magnitude would have been punishment enough for even the most deserving offender, my friend was already waiting on deck.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later he emerged, wiping sweat from his brow and gasping for breath. He looked like he just ran a triathlon. When I asked him what it looked like in there, he simply smiled. I worked up the courage to venture a peek; and when I looked in, I was borderline shamed and offended at what I had become part of.
It was a shit-fest. What he produced from his bowels was a turd that had no rival. It was big, brown, and looked like those worm monsters from the Kevin Bacon movie Tremors. This on top of my sausage links proved to be an ugly sight. It looked like a science experiment from Hades. A shark and a piranha put in the same tank, if you will.
We were not only empty of all the sushi, but we had accomplished our goal. As we were closing, however, I heard my friend's stomach grumble and a look of sheer panic crossed his face. He sprinted back into the pooper and squirted out the tail end of the spicy tuna rolls. It was a gooey, Carvel soft-serve mess. At this point, if you spat in the toilet it would either break off its wall hinges because of the weight or overflow like the Hoover Dam.
What we did next was close the window in the bathroom to make sure not one methane molecule escaped our dungeon of nightmares.
The kicker to this: guess who was coming in to open the store the next morning?
Me and my friend were scheduled to come in at eleven AM. We had our back-story all worked out. We were going to say that a mother took her young son into the bathroom as we were closing up and we didn't check to see if they flushed before we left the store for the night.
Needless to say, when I approached the door the next morning, the dick himself was waiting. He stared at me with those beady eyes of his, trying to search for a chink in my armor; but I held my ground. He interrogated me and my friend separately to try to find dissimilarities in our stories, but our excuses were identical. After a couple of hours, he came to believe firmly that it WAS the mother and young son who caused that TRAINWRECK in the bathroom. He proceeded to question us about what they looked like because he said if he ever saw them they, would not be allowed in the store!
He spent the rest of the day sulking in his office and fuming at these imaginary people, when little did he know that the vulgar, paint-peeling, mind-numbingly evil abomination that greeted him that morning was once food in his employees now-settled stomachs.
