(Side note: I would buy the music of any band that called itself Anal Salvation.)
I went through the door as quietly as possible but as I laid my eyes upon the stalls, the burning press intensified. Things were starting to get warm in the basement, so all pretence at stealth went. I went into the stall, closed the door and locked it (why, I don’t know, but it’s just what you do right?), dropped the seat, dropped my pants faster than if Brad Pitt had said “allow me to pleasure you”, placed my cheeks upon my ceramic throne and… released the kraken.
I know I shouldn’t really dwell on it, because there’s more interesting stuff to write about, but… Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph… it was like a religious moment. Anal salvation was achieved as I felt myself deflate. It was like I was purging myself of all my tension, all my fear and… well… all the shit that was threatening to explode in my pants. But still, after the event, I had exorcised my demons and my ass was clear.
It. Was. Epic. So much relief.
Now that we’ve got that down for posterity, let’s move on with Lockey’s tale of woe, shall we?
So, as I’m grunting and groaning with relief, eye twitching as the splash back occurred, at that moment I probably was the happiest I’d been in days. I let out a big Randy Macho-Man Savage “ooooh yeeeeah” and gave myself a mental high five, leaned back, sighed in contentment, savouring this most treasured of moments.
Squeak.
Splash back, Part Two: The Return. I swear to whatever god from whatever pantheon was having a good laugh at my situation, when I heard that squeak, I was so glad I was still sat on the shitter, because I full on shit myself for a second time.
Literally.
My ass squeaked and pumped out a second round from the barrel with a “bloop” into the lake below, before it snapped shut tighter than the eye of a needle.
Squeaky was in the fucking bathroom.
Seriously, what the hell? How did Squeaky get into the bathroom in the middle of the night? Well, it turns out it did, and little did I know—when I burst into the bathroom in a wild ass panic—that Squeaky was in the far stall as I had headed for the nearest point of salvation. Maybe it had been drawn by the noise in the pipes or something? A mouse? No idea.
My wild and savage cries of anal salvation had obviously drawn Squeaky’s attention. The squeak of those shoes on that shiny floor sent my blood cold and clamped my ass tighter than a shark’s arse at ten thousand fathoms after Splashback Part Two escaped. Sat there, vulnerable and weak, I heard him shuffle-squeak his way out of the end stall to mine, not making a sound except for those damn shoes, and then bump into the door. And again. And again.
Toilet etiquette for the win. I’d locked the stall.
However, it was a tiny piece-of-shit lock that wouldn’t stand up to consistent pressure and the door opened inwards, so I was on the clock in the most surreal moment of my life to date.
Imagine, dear reader, calmly wiping your ass, while a zombie head bumps over and over outside your door, its shoes (totally a teacher with those bad boys) squeaking and squawking like nails on a chalkboard, while you are trapped in a little cubicle that smells like its own special slice of the apocalypse. You check, wipe again, making sure you banished all those little nuggets from your life, and still… bump, bump, bump, bump. Squeak squeak squeak. Not a single sound from the dead though. Silent as the crypt itself. I’ll never get used to that.
And then, like a shining light, I remember.
Zombieland. Survival rule number three. Beware of bathrooms.
And that image of the movie from a year earlier comes to mind of the zombie crawling under the stall to eat the guy taking a shit and inwardly I facepalm. I forgot your rule, Columbus. Cardio, I’m good. I always wear my seatbelt (and I’ll check all the backseats in my next vehicular adventure). There are some others, but I can’t remember them all now.
Anyway, suddenly faced with the potential prospect of Squeaky dropping to his knees and climbing under the stall (didn’t know if they could at this point), my wiping became more frantic. A sense of urgency was returned to me; after all, I’m sat on the shitter and there’s a zombie three feet away trying to break into the stall with his face, so a sense of perspective was required, I think. A realignment of one’s priorities.
Also, getting murdered by a zombie while sitting on the toilet? That’s a pretty ignoble way to go. Here lies Erin Locke. She died upon the shitter.
That would not be my fate, so pants up and head in the game.
Thankfully, I’m little at five-six. I’m in good shape, as you have to be when your free time is spent scampering on rooftops and making retarded jumps between stone walls. I’m agile and wiry, which is really handy when you have to escape the Siege of Stall One.
While Squeaky kept up his retarded assault using his face as a battering ram, I went up and over into the next stall. As I was slinking over, thinking how the fuck I was going to get out of this pile of stupid, my eyes alighted on my new weapon of choice. After all, I had to get past the zed, because I was now further away from the exit.
But I spied the lid of the toilet’s tank and a little light bulb went “bing” over my head. You know the ones I mean? The big ass heavy ceramic lid that covers the tank with the floaty ball thing in it? (I’m not a plumber, work with me here.) Well, those things are heavy and as I dropped into the stall and
