EIGHT

Mervin Shortston--or shitstain as he had been cruelly and degradingly branded during his tormented youth--surveyed the tightly crammed harbour foreshore and promenade, his awe infused with a healthy dash of trepidation.

He was a virgin when it came to attending major public events--he had agonised for over a week whether or not to visit the harbour foreshore and witness the New Year's Eve festivities--and he was amazed at just how quickly the place had swelled with people. It seemed to Mervin that every conceivable patch of ground was occupied. And still the masses continued to pour onto the foreshore and promenades. It made him wonder if perhaps he had made a mistake in coming here. He hadn't anticipated the enormity of the crowd, nor how the tightly packed sea of humanity seemed to magnify the heat to an almost unbearable level.

Maybe he should just fold up his blanket and stow the remainder of his sandwiches and red wine in his cooler bag and head on home.

No!

He couldn't do that. Wouldn't! After finally coming to the decision to attend, he'd found himself actually anticipating it. Surely he could endure the crowds, the heat, the stomach-churning stench of oozing sweat, and the clouds of flies and mosquitoes for a few hours?
Besides, he reasoned, a day spent by the harbour was a welcome respite from the constant daily abuse and vulgarity directed his way by his ill-tempered, obnoxious and thoroughly uncouth neighbour, Tom Brown.

But while he'd managed to rid himself of Tom for a few hours, what about poor Angus? Was he, at that very moment, being subjected to a tirade of abuse and a hail of flying rocks? Oh, yes, Mervin knew quite well his neighbour was in the habit of throwing missiles at his poor defenceless pooch. The white pebbles scattered about his backyard hadn't materialised out of thin air. And it wasn't as if Angus barked constantly. When he did, it was generally because he had heard something suspicious moving around, that was all. Wasn't that the reason he'd bought the dog in the first place? To alert him of possible intruders? Besides, it was in a dog's nature to bark at unusual sounds, wasn't it? And didn't a warning growl or two help protect and keep its master for harm?

Mr Tom Brown had better learn to leave his dog alone, or one of these days he could very well find one of his pebbles sailing back over the fence and through a window.

Mervin knew he was entertaining a thought that would never actually be played out. He understood that if he ever plucked up the courage to 'return to sender' one of those pebbles, Tom would, in all likelihood, retaliate in an instant. Being the type of person Mervin knew him to be, he'd undoubtedly come over and beat Mervin's head to a bloody pulp. And possibly Angus', as well. He seemed to hold a grudge against the whole world, against Mervin and poor Angus in particular.

Mervin tried to contain his worry for his dog lest they ruin his day out. Angus would be fine. If his nasty neighbour should decide to deliver a barrage of projectiles his way, he could always find sanctuary in the crawl-space beneath the house. The recess had been left open for that specific purpose.

Stained a ruddy-red by its veil of toxic pollutants, the last visible sliver of the sun's blazing orb slipped below the smoke-shrouded mountain peaks eclipsing the western horizon. Looking eastward, Mervin saw that dark thunderheads were slowly sweeping in over the city's skyline.

A tantalising cool breeze washed over him, and he welcomed it with a smile. A dip in temperature was just what the doctor ordered to temper the day's oppressive, stifling heat. Mervin hoped the breeze would strengthen to the point it helped disperse some of the noxious pall of pollution that hung over the city like a diseased shroud. And if he was really lucky, maybe it would also dissipate the rank odour of stale perspiration that constantly assaulted his nostrils whenever he inhaled.

Feeling a little more at ease with his decision not to abandon his plans and go home, Mervin opened the last of his cellophane-wrapped ham, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, and uncorked his bottle of wine, pouring some into a plastic cup. He took a sip and swirled the liquid around his mouth, his palate tingling as the tart claret coated it. He swallowed, an appreciative smile stretching his lips. Secretly he believed himself to be a budding connoisseur of fine wine, his wine-rack filled with a variety of the beverage that he had brought from his local stockist or ordered online from national and international wineries.
He drained his cup and then took a hefty bite from his sandwich.

A loud rumble suddenly issued from his stomach, and his food lodged in his throat. A small child sitting a few feet to his left heard the gastric growl and giggled. Mervin reddened profusely.

Oh please, God, not here! Not now!

Since early childhood, Mervin had been afflicted with bad, and at times, painful flatulence. And the ailment almost always seemed to hit him at the most inopportune time--like now.
Two shame-filled events lay suppressed deep within Mervin's memories.

One year, while competing in the one-hundred metre sprint at the high school's annual athletics carnival, his backside had started to toot in time with his strides. As he approached the finish line, he had felt liquid heat fill his underpants as more than just gas evacuated his anus. By day's end, Mervin Shortston had morphed, had become Mervin Shitstain. After that humiliating day, he refused to return to school, the taunts and abuse leaving his parents with no alternative but to enrol him in another educational institution, an institution that was fully two suburbs away and contained students that had never heard of Mervin Shitstain Shorston before.

Several years later, Mervin secured a job as a graphic designer and soon found himself in a relationship with another member of the staff, a colleague by the name of Judy, who just happened to be the boss's secretary.

One night, while engaged in the pleasant task of lovemaking, Mervin's stomach and bowels had gone into revolt. His arse began to toot in perfect harmony with his thrusts. At first there was giggling at this unexpected symphony of expelling gas, but the mirth had quickly evaporated with the onset of liquid follow-through. As the stench of shit filled the room, Judy began to scream in horrified disgust. Afterward, Mervin sat on the shit-smeared sheets and cried hot tears of self-loathing, the ghostly echo of Judy's shrill exhalations of repugnance haunting his ears long after she had gone.

The ensuing snickers and snide jibes that followed became unendurable, forcing Mervin to quit his job.

In the hopes of finding a medicinal cure, Mervin had consulted his local practitioner. Lotions, potions, pills, a session of acupuncture and a change of diet had all been prescribed to combat his ailment, but nothing proved to be an effective remedy. His affliction refused subjugation. Incontinence pants soon became an integral part of his daily attire.

And now, surrounded by tens of thousands of people, it felt as if his malady was threatening to strike again.

A much louder series of gurgling growls emanated from his abdomen. Mervin cringed as, this time, quite a few heads turned and looked at him. Not all the staring faces held bemused smiles. Ashamed, Mervin saw that a few held barely disguised looks of distain.
Red-faced, he bowed his head, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the blanket beside his empty wine cup. He clenched his buttocks, hoping to prevent the release of gas, but the ever-increasing pressure he felt building in his stomach told him the action would ultimately prove otiose. If he didn't get to a toilet, and quickly, he knew he'd be unable to prevent the mounting gas exploding from his backside. And worse, it definitely felt is if follow-through was going to be the order of the day.

He tried not to whimper.

With beads of panic-induced sweat peppering his brow, Mervin stood on unsteady legs and scanned his surroundings. His eyes widened and relief swamped him when he saw the objects of his salvation at the rear of the crammed foreshore.

In an area separated from the crowd by safety fencing was a seemingly endless column of Port-A-Loos. And even though he was a fair distance from them, Mervin saw that there was an extensive queue of people lined up to utilise the amenities.

He prayed the wait wouldn't be too long. He needed to go, and fast.

Wending his way through the vast throngs of humanity, Mervin hurriedly joined the queue.
Come on! Hurry up! he silently screamed.

The pressure in his bowels was increasing steadily; he couldn't contain it for much longer. He was Mount St. Helens, and eruption was imminent.

After what felt like an eternity, Mervin at last found himself standing at the head of the queue. He raced towards the opening door of a Port-A-Loo and rudely squeezed past the man exiting it. Ignoring the crude remark shot his way, Mervin slammed closed the door and locked it. He tore a length of toilet paper from the dispenser, and with a hand that trembled noticeably, wiped away the smattering of urine that dotted the toilet seat.

Turning, he unceremoniously undid his trousers, pulled them down around his ankles, and plonked onto the cool aluminium seat.

No sooner had he unclenched his butt-cheeks when a thunderous rumble virtually exploded from his behind which was immediately followed by a stream of hot, foul-smelling discharge that landed in the water at the bottom of the bowl with enough force to generate a spray that reached high enough to coat his buttocks. Mervin's pursed lips flapped like sails in the wind as he exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Fuck! Did that guy's arse just explode, or what?" Mervin heard someone say.
"I don't know, but I sure hope he doesn't light a match in there."

Mervin paid little heed to the sounds of raucous laughter that drifted in through the air vents near the toilet's ceiling. All that mattered was that he had made it. But it had been a closely fought race. A few minutes more, and...

That was when he decided it was definitely time to go home. He couldn't face anymore humiliation today, no siree. And never-mind returning to collect his belongings--not that he believed they'd still be there. No doubt thieves and pick-pockets viewed events such as these as potential goldmines.

He would finish his business and then just leave.

He had made a mistake, he realised that now. He should never have come in the first place. How many times did his body have to rebel against him before he learned his lesson? No more. Today had been too close for comfort. It might have taken almost forty years, but finally he'd succumbed to the knowledge he was a prisoner to the erratic condition plaguing his bowels.

As if to give credence to this sudden epiphany, a painful spasm racked his stomach and another putrid smelling stream gushed from his tortured and burning anus.

Resigned to the fact he could be sitting there for a while longer, he looked around the cubicle's cramped and gloomy confines. By the meagre light flowing through the air-vents he saw that there had been those who's viewed the Poet-A-Loo as something more that a place to dispel bodily waste; the toilet had also become graffiti artists' playground. Crudely drawn penises, vaginas and over-sized breasts adorned the walls in abundance as did explicit slogans and ditties: Andy sucks dead dog's balls: Jim's wife is a slut. I should know because me and my friends gang-banged her last night, and she loved it: For a great time contact Stacy. She'll suck your balls dry: Roses are red, violets are blue. If you blow me I'll come over you.

Mervin shook his head distastefully.

A brilliant flash filled the vents and the gap at the base of the lavatory's door. Seconds later there came a booming report that vibrated the entire cubicle. Mervin heard muffled shouts and cries of fear come from the vast crowd outside.

Wonderful! That was all he needed.

From the dispenser he tore of a wad of toilet paper that could have stripped paint its texture was so course, and proceeded to wipe his behind. He said a silent, fervent prayer that he would make it to the subway before the rain started to fall. Travelling on a train while drenched to the bone was not a prospect he viewed with relish.

Effulgence again filled the cleft at the bottom of the door and was immediately followed by a near-deafening crack of thunder.

Mervin heard a few "ooohs" and "aaahs" from beyond the door before absolute silence descended.

He frowned, wondering what could have occurred to effectively silence a crowd of such magnitude.

Maybe the first of the fireworks displays had begun.

He pushed the light button on his watch, illuminating the dial. He saw it was a little early for the nine o'clock session to have started.

What had happened out there, then?

There was only one way to find out.

He finished wiping, stood and pulled up his trousers. Courtesy of those who had utilised the facility before him, and indicative of their poor aim, the hems of his pants were dampened by the puddles of urine dotting to toilet floor. Mervin groaned at the site and feel of his stained, moist pants.

Suddenly he was retching. What was that God-awful smell?

He looked at the contents of the toilet bowl and sniffed timidly. Although it smelled rank, the reek emanating from the bowl didn't seem to have the acrid stench associated with rotten egg gas. The vile odour permeating the cubicle had to be coming from somewhere outside.

From above him there came the polite pitter-patter of rain drops landing on the cubicle's roof. It quickly changed in volume, becoming a loud, incessant drumming as the clouds he had seen scudding across the sky earlier released their load.

The roar of the deluge striking the roof resonated throughout the lavatory's confines, its near-deafening pitch sending tendrils of fear winnowing through Mervin.

The smell of hydrogen sulphide intensified to a nauseating level. Mervin leaned over the toilet and vomited violently, pieces of undigested sandwich commingling with the shit that filled the bowl.

Panting heavily, he pulled a handkerchief from a front pocket of his pants, wiped his dripping chin, and then placed the kerchief over his nose and mouth. He wondered if perhaps a gas pipe had ruptured somewhere. He couldn't think of more plausible explanation for the almost tangible, offensive odour pervading the Port-A-Loo.

He couldn't stand the stench a moment longer. He had to get out of there. He needed fresh air before he passed out.

He turned, preparing to unlock the door.

But his hand froze mere centimetres from the latch when, over the downpour's tempestuous roar, he heard the high-pitched scream of someone suffering from, what could undoubtedly be, acute pain. The single, strident scream was instantly replaced by a cacophony of unbridled, agonised shrieks and howls.

Mervin's trembling hand slowly retreated from the lock, the hand holding the kerchief collapsing, also. A part of his confused mind registered the fact the noxious smell of rotten eggs had begun to dissipate somewhat, but the bulk of his thoughts remained centred on the riotous shrieks and screams that seemed to be coming from all directions at once.

It sounded as if some frightening affair was occurring outside the toilet, but Mervin had no inclination to open the door and investigate its cause. To him those terrifying, ungodly shrieks and howls were the antithesis of people in the throes of having a good time.

But as loud as the screams were, Mervin was able to discern a barely audible but constant sibilant-like hiss. His eyes widened fearfully.

Was there a snake inside the cubicle with him?

No sooner had he dismissed the possibility when a strong chemical smell assailed his nostrils. It was a reek he readily associated with melting plastic or rubber; an odour that seemed to leave a residue on the lining of his throat. He quickly replaced the kerchief over his nose and mouth.

Something thumped against the door with enough force to rock the cubicle, and Mervin back fearfully away. His calves connected with the toilet, and he sat down on it with a grunt. The door shook again as it was subjected to yet another solid impact, the heavy jolt immediately followed by a piercing, gurgling scream that Mervin thought held a liquid quality to it, like that made by someone trying to yell while under water.

Strong, hammer-like blows suddenly began to pummel the toilet's door and walls, and Mervin uttered a high-pitched, terrified screech of his own. He realised that whoever was out there was trying to force the door open to get in.

The hammering continued, its intensity ferocious and unrelenting. Mervin watched in mounting horror as the door's latch began to rattle, the small screws holding the mechanism in place loosening under the force being applied to the door. He knew the lock wouldn't be able to sustain the punishment being subjected to it for much longer.

Full-blow terror eclipsed him and he began to shake uncontrollably. Oh, dear, sweet Jesus, what was happening out there?

The cubicle shuddered dramatically as something heavy and powerful connected with it. And then the Port-A-Loo began to tilt backward. Whoever was out there was trying to tip the lavatory over.

Now it was Mervin's own screams that resonated throughout the toilet.

The cubicle pitched violently forward and landed heavily on its base, the collision causing the contents of the toilet bowl to slosh, producing a wave that splashed upward. The seat of Mervin's trousers darkened as it was saturated by the heaving surge of shit and piss, and he wailed pitifully.

Beyond the cubicle door the shrieks and pain-filled howls continued unabated. Although he longed to escape his toilet-cum-prison, Mervin wanted no part of what ever hellish events were happening outside.

Without warning the Port-A-Loo began to tilt again. Mervin placed his hands against the walls and braced for the inevitable toppling of the cubicle. Beneath his played fingers the walls felt slightly warm and yielding under his touch, like butter approaching deliquescence stage. Before he could focus his attention on this peculiarity, the cubicle inclined to a precarious angle.

Gravity claimed the Port-A-Loo. It overturned, landing with a solid thud.

Mervin went back-slamming against the rear wall, the force of the collision expelling the air from his lungs which exited his mouth in a wheezy whoosh. A tidal flow of human excrement poured from the upended toilet and washed over him, the effluent's corrupt stench filling his nostrils. A fountain of vomit spewed from Mervin and into the air. Before he could close his gaping mouth, the ejected contents of his stomach splattered back onto his face. Choking on his own vomit, Mervin thrashed about, his fingers digging at his constricted throat.

Something crashed against the door that was now the toilet's ceiling. The severely weakened latch snapped and the buckled door swung sharply inwards.
A crushing weight tumbled down onto Mervin.

He couldn't breath! The heavy burden was compressing his sternum against his lungs preventing even the tinniest intake of oxygen.

In a desperate effort to draw breath he somehow managed to manoeuvre his hands under the weight bearing down on him, and he heaved mightily.

Lightning streaked across the cloud-laden sky and stark, white light filled the cubicle. His strained muscles quivering under the bulk, Mervin looked up at what had fallen onto him.
He screamed shrilly.

The person had no face!

Gone were the person's nose, lips, cheeks and chin, replaced by a bubbling, suppurating morass of running syrup that dripped onto Mervin like ghastly candle was. The thing's eye-sockets contained nothing more than pools of blood-streaked yellow jelly that joined the substance dripping onto him.

Mervin's face began to tingle, then sting. And then it began to burn. He could actually feel little islands of blisters forming on his cheeks and chin before bursting only to reform again. With a desperate shout of revulsion and pain, he thrust the faceless thing aside.
No longer shielded by the body, Mervin found himself instantly doused by the deluge flooding in through the broken cubicle door.

And then the real agony began.

The last lucid thought to run through Mervin-Shitstain-Shortston's mind before his flesh broke down and the glistening red muscle and tissue covering his face and skull dissolved, was that he had finally found the perfect cure for his embarrassing flatulence disorder: death.

Above the city and harbour, rain, the colour of diluted urine, cascaded in a torrent from the thick, yellow-tinged clouds that filled the sky.

Covering the ground around the Port-A-loo, the harbour foreshore and surrounding promenades like a grotesque, nightmarish carpet, were countless thousands of misshapen lumps that gurgled and hissed. Clouds of steam rose steadily from the forms along with the overwhelming stench of corruption.

On the harbour water, innumerable shapes bobbed up and down like weird buoys. Of the thousands who had dived into the water in the hopes of escaping the death falling from above, none had faired any better than those on land. They could only stay submerged for so long. When forced to breach the surface for air, they found the deadly torrent of burning liquid was waiting for them.

A blanket of pale-yellow vapour began to form on the water's churning surface. It grew steadily thicker, and then, slowly, gracefully, it began to rise. The wind, its velocity increasing with every passing minute, grabbed the fog in invisible fists and drove it forward, propelling it over the promenade walls. Once ashore, the toxic mist began to wind its way through the city streets. It drifted down narrow alleyways, flowed into recesses, stairwells, and into the lobbies of buildings.

Of those who had been fortunate enough to evade the deadly downpour and found shelter, they quickly discovered that their sanctuary offered scant protection from the vapour's irrepressible, corrosive advance.