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 The Secret BattlePosted 01.31.2006 by Poo Zombie (59)
A burst of machine gun fire rocked the building, followed by an anguished scream and then frenzied orders shouted in semi-intelligible German. I grunted and strained forward, answering the blast with my own volley of anal ammo. I was running out of time and trying desperately to evacuate my wrecked rectum. Casualties were heavy.
How had I gotten into this war? Let's back up a little. I'm the most Shameful person I know. I've spent three years carefully preventing my boyfriend from harboring even the slightest suspicion that I shit. For a while I had a very safe haven, but the inconsiderate fascist apartment complex managers have temporarily barricaded my pooping paradise. Since then I've been taking some very strong diet pills, and on the days that we work our twelve hour graveyard shifts, I eat practically nothing -- half a package of Saltines and a Diet Pepsi. The diet pills keep me pretty stopped up during the work week, which is good because I have no time nor place to shit; and I always have the pleasure of a perfectly concealed, relaxing dump, complete with shower running and a good book, after I get up on the first day of the weekend. This particular weekend, however, was to be different. The boyfriend, alias Gomez, decided to buy a new TV to go with the new Xbox 360 and surround-sound theater system that had been delivered but not yet hooked up. We stopped at Circuit City and, being a guy, he had to have the biggest, most expensive TV in the store. On the way home, I was overcome by a sense of well being with the world. I had a small fortune in my pocket to spend, I was picking up my new car the next day, I had a four-day weekend, and I could eat normally again for a few days. Foolishly, naïvely, I requested that he stop at Taco Hell, where I got two tacos and a beef chalupa, all with sour cream and hot sauce. It was almost noon when we got home -- way past our bedtimes -- so we wolfed down our Taco Hell and went to bed. I took a book with me, as usual, so that when I got up I could smuggle it into the bathroom and read while I pooped with the shower running. I woke pleasantly around nine and lounged in bed, enjoying an episode of CSI while Gomez showered. Still no hint of trouble. When it was my turn in the bathroom, I sauntered in with the same pleasant sense of contentment, expecting a satisfying shit, then a long hot shower and a chance to experiment with my new makeup, after which I would carefully select from among my new clothes. Life seemed golden and serene. When I settled in on the toilet, shower blasting away, nothing happened. I felt some bizarre burblings and shiftings in my stomach, but nothing lower. Poopster39 once said: "It was as if my intestines were expecting criminal activity and had set up a roadblock." I cannot say it better or funnier -- that's what had happened. I tried in vain for a while and then gave up. I climbed into the shower, but my world felt slightly off kilter now, and I knew something unpleasant was coming. Instead of elaborately laced and strapped long, tight skirts, I dressed carefully in plain comfortable pants that would come off quickly if necessary. I took my diet pills, hoping that they would help to quiet the brewing storm, and decided to have some macaroni and cheese. Gomez had unpacked all his new electronic toys and was in the process of connecting the surround sound, Xbox, and TV, babbling excitedly all the while about how his Call of Duty 2 game was going to look and sound awesome on all this new equipment. I settled down with my breakfast to catch up on four days' worth of PoopReport and blow my money on expensive clothes from overseas, the kind I rarely can afford to treat myself to; and for a little while my sense of contentment returned. But halfway through the macaroni, I sensed something going horribly wrong. My stomach had begun to groan and swell. I pictured a cranky, old, bald New Yorker going, "Hey! Whaddya tryin' ta do, kill me in here?!" I knew things would come to a head soon. Sometimes when I have to poop I can "take a shower," which means running the shower while I poop. But I had just gotten out of the shower an hour before. I stared around in panic. My safe haven was closed. I had sold my old car and didn't have my new one yet, so I couldn't go anywhere. I watched Gomez. He almost had his stuff put together. I knew he was going to play his video game when he had it all connected, and he seemed almost done. I concentrated on PoopReport and shopping and tried to ignore the increasingly insistent demands of my bowels. I knew this one wasn't going to come out smooth and silent, and I needed to wait for adequate cover. Within half an hour I began to feel the Final Red Alert Warning: a burning, stinging sensation very close to my asshole itself. I wriggled around in my chair, trying to use my own body weight to stem the tide. At one point I didn't think I could hold it while sitting down, so I jumped up and squeezed my buttcheeks together for all I was worth; and when Gomez turned around to see what was going on, I pretended to be studying my makeup, carefully clutching a blanket around my waist to conceal my odd butt-clenching stance. FINALLY he announced that it was ready! But to my dismay, he wanted me to stand there and watch him insert the game disc and admire the graphics and colors and clarity of picture, which I dutifully did, stretching my self-control to the limit as I struggled to keep my voice calm and casual while violently clenching my ass cheeks together. Once the game got going, I announced that I was going to shave my legs, which was a good excuse as they did in fact need shaving -- and running a bath is louder for purposes of noise camouflage than running a shower. I stuffed Jurassic Park under my shirt and strolled casually to the bathroom. I shut and locked the door, turned on the bath, and sat down just as a barrage of gunfire blared from the absurdly loud speakers. Normally I am quite careful about noise level, as previous neighbors have complained about the disturbing soundtrack to our depraved lives echoing 'round the building all night. This time, however, I was grateful for the absurd volume he insisted on. The sulfuric ass lava tommy-gunned from my poor asshole before my butt even hit the toilet seat, spraying the back of the lid and the seat itself. Disgusting, but I sat down on the shitty seat anyway, preferring to wriggle around in my own feces, if need be, to minimize noise. The first round of ass pee was interspersed with the hard, sharp, painful, greenish-black rabbit pellets that have become standard since the implementation of the diet pill and starvation diet. These exploded out with the first wave, no doubt propelled by the pressure of the lake of liquid bubbling violently behind them, like a solid dam being burst by waves and broken into pieces that are then swept out with the water. When the video-game gunfire stopped, I half-stood, squeezing the cheeks again, smearing them even more grotesquely with liquid shit, gritting my teeth, wrapping my knuckles around the towel rack in agony, and waited for the next machine gun attack, which came mercifully quickly. The rest of the shit evacuated in one shockingly long, loud, juicy anal burp that left even my own mouth hanging open in horror. My rectum gaped and contracted of its own volition, as if it were having a seizure. A few small bubbles and gasps eked out, and then a long, deep fart which I swear made my ravaged, torn tissues flutter in their own breeze. Outside, the battle raged on; but in the bathroom, I seized a Charmin white flag of surrender and steeled myself for damage control. I rose carefully to hover a few inches off the bowl and looked. Green muck such as you might find in a neglected Koi pond coated the underside of the toilet lid, the seat, the entire bowl, the side of the tub right next to the toilet, and the small plastic grocery bag with which we coated the tiny bathroom trash can -- not to mention me, from asscrack to thigh. I groaned, not even knowing where to begin. After a moment's thought, I stripped off the rest of my clothes and climbed into the bathwater, scrubbed carefully, and got out. The bathwater looked like nuclear waste. I dug out a pair of rubber gloves intended for an upcoming dye job and attacked the toilet stoically. When the toilet and tub were clean, I carefully draped another layer of paper atop the whole mess to prevent shit particles from resisting my flush and battling bravely back to the front line of the bowl. I gingerly pulled the plug on the tub full of shit water, let it drain, and then stepped into the shower to rinse myself and the tub of any remaining traces of shit. When the shower was off, I carefully flushed the toilet and dressed. No shit particles floated, but the water retained an odd yellowish-green tinge, and I noticed that I'd forgotten the shit splattered into the trashcan. I thought wildly. Two flushes would attract attention. I couldn't risk another flush so soon. It was time for a bold, risky move. I tied a bandanna around my hair babushka-style, staring grimly at myself in the mirror like a soldier preparing for battle. I breezed confidently out of the bathroom and announced in a singsong voice that I was going to do some housecleaning. This elicited a distracted nod from Gomez, on whose forehead I dropped an innocent kiss as though I hadn't just done something extremely disgusting on a toilet seat he also uses. I hastily gathered cleaning supplies, hoping desperately that he wouldn't decide to use the bathroom before I could get in there and clean up every speck of evidence. I removed and carefully tied the shitty trash bag, scrubbed the tub and sink, sprayed mold cleaner on the ceiling to cover the shit smell, and dropped one of those blue tablet thingies in the toilet bowl to disguise the yellowish-green color. I even mopped the floor and cleaned the mirror and tidied up the rest of the house to complete the deception. In order to tie up loose ends so that he couldn't find a single abnormal aspect of the whole episode, I announced that I was going to change into my new clothes now that I was done cleaning, which I did, and later shaved my legs quickly while he took a nap. And he never suspected a thing. At least, I hope not. Another perfectly concealed shit. I will never again hear the phrase "Covering fire!" without smirking. Post new comment
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