I’d sat on two-thirds of this drunkenly-written story for the best part of a year and could think of no logical way of ending it. Then I re-read it,  realised that logic had little to do with any part of the narrative and committed myself to finishing it; if only for my own enjoyment and no-one else’s.

It’s very first-draft, and while that doesn’t excuse its content it does provide me with some sort of barrier against criticism.

DISCLAIMER: Not for everyone.

***

It was a Wednesday.

I remember it was a Wednesday because I was wearing my yellow boxer shorts. I can’t remember when it started exactly, but at some point in my life I decided it’d be a good idea to co-ordinate each day of the week with a primary or secondary colour. I’ve always found it a good way of keeping track of the days. I wear red on a Monday; blue on a Tuesday… on a Sunday, I wear brown boxer shorts because I run out of primary and secondary colours.

They weren’t originally brown. Brown boxer shorts are strangely difficult to get hold of.

****

One day I found a nice shade of brown dye in a fabric shop in the market. I took it up to the varicose woman behind the counter.

She looked at the box of dye and stared up at me.

“Why do you want this dye?” she asked

“To dye my boxer shorts” I said

Her gaze darted between the box and the till; she looked up at me again:

“Why do you want to dye your boxer shorts?”

I thought for a moment. “I like to colour-coordinate my underwear with days of the week.”

The woman, wrinkling beneath her blue-rinse, didn’t react.

I hurriedly grabbed the box and fumbled £5 onto the counter; I didn’t wait for change. With that dye I dyed a seventh pair of boxer shorts, originally white, to a nice shade of beige. My cycle was complete.

****

So there I was, sat, looking at the inside of my boxers, assured in my head that it was a Wednesday.

“Tomorrow I’ll wear my green boxers” I thought “which means it’ll be Thursday”

I looked up at the door expecting to see some graffiti; but there was none. Only a lone bogey that someone had stuck below the coat hook.

“Disgusting.” I thought “How vulgar.”

Then all of a sudden, whilst studying the bogey’s shape, something occurred inside of me. I felt a movement just above where I expected my bowels would be. Or perhaps it was my bowels, only I’d never bothered to ask anyone as to the whereabouts of them. It’s hardly the type of thing you ask someone.

“Dear god.” I inhaled.

Within moments, I was subjected to immense horror as my supposed bowels took issue with their content and evicted the poo crap splatter gunk.

Poo crap splatter gunk. Like a ruddy shit shower, waterfall of waste matter. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t find the muscles available to push out a tear. I kicked my legs out inadvertently. My lips flibble-flabbled absurdities that I have no recollection of. It seemed like it was never going to stop. I thought I was going to pass out. I worried briefly of how it’d look if I was found like this – unconscious or dead. I didn’t want to be found with my yellow boxers around my ankles, poo crap splatter gunk all over my spotty bum cheeks; I felt it was a tad undignified, certainly no way for an investment banker to round off Wednesday afternoon.

Just as I felt all hope was lost, the foulness came to an abrupt halt. I blinked a bead of sweat out of my left eye and unclenched my hands from the toilet seat. My knuckles were white, but at least my fingers weren’t brown, as I had feared.

After a few moments spent collecting me together and remembering what day it was I reached for some toilet paper.

But there was none. This was definitely the opposite of good news.

“Oh bloody hell.” I mumbled

I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t have any experience to fall back on, so I did the natural, organic, human thing and panicked. Panicked so much in fact, that I grabbed the only thing I could; my trousers, and rolled the left leg up towards me, stuffing it between my legs and proceeded to wipe the shit shower splat from my pooey bum. I retracted my hand and observed my freshly-sodden trouser leg. “I’m going to have to wash that when I get home,” I pondered, “No good leaving it for mother; she only does a wash on Saturday.”

In retrospect, I realized that I probably should’ve checked the other cubicles for some toilet paper – but I can honestly say it didn’t even occur to me until I’d soiled my trousers “good and proper”; as Jamie Oliver might have said.

I resigned to my fate and rolled my trousers into a ball with the offending trouser leg rolled up inside. I tucked it under my arm and shuffled out of the cubicle, stopping at the sink to wash my hands.

Gareth from accounting walked in.

“Are you alright mate?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed as warmly as I possibly could, given the situation, and forced a contented smile. Gareth didn’t reciprocate. I turned 90 degrees away from the sink to face him and placed one hand on my hip.

It was then I realized that I’d forgotten to pull my yellow boxer shorts up.

“Oh.” I said

Partially startled I lifted my boxer shorts back up, pushing my winky which had somehow got caught, in over the waistband.

“Much better.” I said, laughing again, only this time smacking my buttocks with both hands. I don’t know why I did it, but I imagine it was nerves.

My heart was racing a bit faster now, and the world seemed to merge into a muffled blur around me.

“Better go now.” I thought

But as I lurched forward to pull the door open I felt a familiar disturbance inside of me;

“Oh… cripes!” I turned to Gareth to exclaim

Gareth looked a little scared; indeed he may have been the mirror image of me as I stood there paralyzed with fear.

Then the horror struck again.

I spun on the spot to run to a cubicle, but I was too late. I filled my Wednesday underwear with the remainder of my fecal matter, which was in just as plentiful supply as before – wave after wave of molten shit sludge rocketed out of my rectum and into my shorts. Before long, it was seeping out of the sides, making me look like some sort of jam doughnut from hell. Gareth was rooted to the spot, staring at me; clearly perturbed ­about the whole thing. He started wailing like a small child whose toe had been deliberately trodden on by a puppy slaughterer; I stretched out a comforting hand in an attempt to console him, but the sludge I’d inadvertently smeared across my wrist made his cries all the shriller. I grabbed his shirt out of desperation and put my other finger to my lips in a ‘shh!’ gesture – the last thing I wanted was any extra attention to the matter. He seemed to calm slightly, despite my shitty sleeve scrawling out a small symbol on his chest, and it felt like I was regaining control of the situation.

Unfortunately I hadn’t quite yet regained full control of my defecator, which had a little more to add to proceedings in the form of transparent slop and strains of blood.

A definite puddle formed beneath me; sight of which filled Gareth’s eyes with water and lungs full of screams. I reached higher for his mouth to silence him, inadvertently spreading excrement up his Donald duck tie when he suddenly turned to run. My hand was still gripping his shirt and the puddle, now beneath both of us, negated any friction there once was between us and the floor. As Gareth spun around to dash away both of our sets of legs flailed out from under us, causing us to collapse in the crap. We landed hard with a ‘splat’. Gareth’s screams had diluted into a faint whimper as he analyzed the impact on his M&S shirt. “I’m sorry…” I said “I’m really sorry!” I began to sob – I wasn’t even aware that I was grabbing his chest with both hands by this point. “Please don’t mention this Gareth!” I pleaded “Please!”

I started worrying about all the silly names people would give me following today’s ordeal if it ever got out; “Shit-pants” seemed the most likely, certainly.

“Get off me… please!” Gareth begged, looking and sounding like a startled little girl, or at least how I’d imagine a startled little girl to sound – woe betide any fair maiden to find themselves in such a predicament.

In the moment I lost it a bit; I couldn’t let him go. I could hear the jeering and the endless afternoons of whispering behind my back already; I anticipated days, weeks; months of ridicule – eventually ending in my embarrassing ejaculation from the company on the grounds of ‘restructuring’. People would titter and rub each other’s shoulders as I departed. I’d already begged him, but even a bribe wouldn’t have shut that little shit Gareth up. I had to do what I did to show him I was still in control, albeit with cack-stridden boxers round my ankles and eyes full of tears.

“Aaarrrgghhh!”

He struggled hard against me as I brought his arm round his back and shoved him to the wall; opening the utility door with my right hand I shoved him in with most of my body weight, slamming my shoulder on the corner of the door as I lost my balance slightly. I was fortunate that he fell prone over the vacuum and mop bucket – for a moment I worried about his head as it slammed into the poorly-rigged metal shelf behind him, but the falling bottle of Cif awoke me from my lapse in concentration and I shoved the door shut. Hard.

“What the fuck?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? YOU FUCKING LUNATIC!”

I could barely hear him which was a relief – I pulled up my boxers whilst leaning against the door, but I soon noticed that it had clicked shut and being a cleaner’s cupboard, had no handle on the other side. I tested it with a sharp tug; he was trapped. “Thank Christ.” I thought.

I checked myself out in the mirror – obviously not in a fruity way, I was covered in ordure – to see if what visible damage had been incurred on my yellow Wednesdays. Remarkably, there was little obvious to a naked eye; a few dots, maybe, on the left thigh and waistband. Ignoring the demented banging on the door I shoved my trousers into the waste bin and sorted my hair in the mirror.

“Is this locked?! You can’t do this, what the fuck is going on?!”

“Sorry Gareth.” I thought, but did not say. My words would’ve been more than likely meaningless to him, the unfeeling wanker. From the trajectory of what little sound emanated from the locked wooden door it sounded as though he was still stuck on the floor, which was unsurprising given the limited ground area to manoeuvre. I wiped down my legs with wet paper towels.

And I left – it was clear I had to go home. I had an hour and forty-seven minutes left to go on the clock but it was unfeasible that I continue about my day. In my boxers.

And Gareth in the cupboard.

I walked out the door, lightly touching the utility cupboard with a hand as I stepped out – not sure why – and headed towards the elevator. It was only a matter of five paces, but I should’ve been more careful. I feel that I may have waltzed out with some conceited sense of confidence about me; a bit of a swagger, perhaps. For that moment, anyway, I lost my concentration and didn’t even pause to consider other people in the world, less in the office itself. Of all the people to cross en route to the lift it had to be her. Chloe.

“Heyalrightttt?” I nervously waived like some camp fashion show presenter or something.

Understandably her eyes didn’t rise above my waist – they were transfixed by the area of yellow cotton where grey nylon should’ve been. I tried to remain cool – act as if nothing had happened/was happening/was ever going to happen. I think I whistled as I sauntered towards the metal doors. It was then she let out a shriek. A shriek which, upon my bemused turning, turned into a shrill laughter – doubling over, pointing, she backed into the wall and stepped sideways towards the office entrance. She clearly had no sense of humanity about her or shame as she reached for the door to the workplace, obviously eager to invite others. I thought twice about kicking her arm off; but did it anyway. She yelled in astonishment but it did little to stifle her mirth. Others joined – through the door they came – and I decided to tuck tail and run, hurriedly jamming the lift button with my forefinger. The mirth behind me ascended into glee and then into hysteria as I entered the metal capsule. It was only as the doors shut I noticed it in the opposite-facing mirrors.

A thick brown shit-streak right up the back of my Yelly Weddys. Fuck you Chloe you flap-faced bint.

**********

Needless to say I never returned to Milner & Milner Finance. I couldn’t face the whisperers, and after they found and released Gareth early on Thursday morning it was unlikely they were going to understand my side of the story. He probably made me sound like some sort of freak the wanker.

That weekend I returned to the market, but I didn’t tell the wrinkled old bag why I needed six boxes of brown material dye – nor did she ask.

I now have no idea what day it is most of the time.