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Toilet Town |
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By Jason Fischer © 2007
The problem began with toilet outsourcing. Water was rare, and the government's water licences were an exercise in extortion that most businesses couldn't afford. On the other hand, wormhole technology was cheap and efficient. Toilet Town found a niche and exploited it. They built a warehouse of toilets that required only one water licence, and hooked up a network of portals throughout the city. Licensed establishments were their primary customers. Pubs and clubs ripped out their loos, and squeezed a pool table or a handful of gaming machines into the recovered space. On a free wall hung the wormhole: a flickering portal that folks casually leapt through while reaching for their zippers. In some lower class establishments you didn't even have to step through the wormhole; not if you were male, anyway. In places like that, publicans left sanitary cubes at the base of the portal for those with poor aim. Higher class digs meant the patrons expected a decent facility, and for the right price Toilet Town would connect the portal to a sparkling paradise. The toilet seats were warm, the water was real and the attendants were polite. String quartets were an optional feature. *** It is unclear what happened to the Toilet Town nexus that night. Some claimed industrial sabotage; others said the wormhole network was just on the blink. The disturbance was brief enough that most people didn't even notice that anything was amiss. Myron was one who did. *** Myron made his polite excuses and strode through the wormhole, expecting to be greeted by the muted strains of Vivaldi and a self-effacing servant to adjust his tuxedo. What he saw made his jaw drop. The cramped chamber was filthy, and Myron suspected it had never been cleaned. It stank of marijuana smoke and excrement. But that wasn't what bothered Myron the most — it was the bleeding, naked body, swarming with flies and missing most of its head that really gave him pause. A grotty service door was thrown open, and a trio of policemen barrelled through, weapons hoisted. "Freeze!" Myron mutely raised his hands. He noticed with some discomfort that a pool of blood trickled under his expensive footwear. A split-second later the corpse exploded. It had become somewhat fashionable among killers to dispose of evidence by rigging the body with small bombs. Myron fell to the floor, ears ringing, and landed face first in the urinal trough. Gagging, he made it to his shaky feet, and staggered back through the wormhole while the lawmen were still disoriented. Moments later, the wormhole glitch was fixed, and the police charged into the seedy pub that was usually connected to that toilet. 'The Tuxedo Killer' became folklore, and no trace of this dapper assassin was ever found. Meanwhile, a shaken Myron stood back in the conference room. He was covered from head to toe with blood, gore, and every manner of human excrement; the stench that wafted from him was unbelievable. Myron's business associates stared at him, horrified. "Whoo!" he managed after a long, awkward pause. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."
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