It was a warm sunny Saturday. Outside, kittens napped, grasshoppers hopped, and sparrows flew into the reinforced stained-glass windows of the formidable Shaw Cathedral. A beautiful day in all senses of the word and Mayor Lunchbox Shaw wasn’t there to see any of it. Instead of frolicking in the sun, the day, like most other days for the Mayor, was spent in agonising pain on his porcelain throne. The doctors diagnosed his body’s recent toilet obsession as a very rare variation of cholera called Poor Ordered Orbital Tremor Syndrome, or POOTS for short. So rare was POOTS that nobody knew its cause, nor was there any cure. Ill-fortuned patients suffering from POOTS found themselves confined on the toilet for hours or days at a time, enveloped in the most foul-smelling and chunky diarrhea imaginable. Like its older brother Cholera, POOTS was most often fatal; most sufferers died of dehydration within the week. Fortunately, Mayor Shaw was wealthy enough to afford a constant IV drip of orange-flavored sports drinks to maintain his sloppy shits.
“Your majesty,” whispered his advisor through her gas mask, “Reader Smith is here. He wishes for an audience.”
“Very well. Let him in.” The advisor buzzed the visitor into the throne room. If not for the horrible smell the room might’ve been quite striking. Multicolored light streamed in through the stained-glass windows to fall on Mayor Shaw’s glorious ivory and porcelain throne. On the oaken walls hung the stern portraits of Shaw’s ancestors, their eyes burning holes through any visitor or guest foolish enough to demand an audience. If only the room had good ventilation.
Reader Smith walked in proudly but soon found himself humbled by his lord’s holy aroma. “Y-your majesty,” he gagged. Lunchbox liked to imagine that the Reader would’ve kneeled before him regardless of the debilitating smell.
“Reader Smith, you are head of the Eldritch Project, no? I hope you bring good news.”
“Yes, your majesty.” The Reader tried to manage a smile but had to stop himself from retching. “I have the latest progress report. Everything’s going smoothly. With luck, we’ll be finished well before the summer solstice.”
“Excellent, excellent! Well done, director!”
“But that’s not, urgh, why I came, your highness. I also bear bad news.”
“What? How dare you! You know how much I hate bad news!”
“I’m incredibly sorry, your goodliness. I assure you that this is none of my fault.”
“You play with my heart, Reader. Very well. Let’s hear it.”
“The Troll has escaped from Fort Pants Dungeon.”
“What? Impossible!” Mayor Shaw said clichély.
“Possible! The stationed inquisitors spotted Inquisitor Lawless riding the horse the Troll was in past our defences and over the gates. They even cleared that fancy electric fence!”
“Shaw damnit! I knew that inquisitor was up to no good! How did they find our only weakness!? The only thing capable of getting through those defences is a large tetrapod capable of jumping over three feet in a single leap!”
“I know. We must’ve had an information leak somewhere. Personally, I suspect the old hag, Agnes Killy. She’s up to no good, I tell you. I’m obviously not to blame.”
“Bah, serial killers. You should never trust a murderer. Is there anything else?”
Reader Smith managed a smile. “Yes, some good news. We have recovered a potential accomplice in the escape. He was heavily wounded, but our healers expect him to make a complete recovery. He’s currently being held for questioning in the Dungeon. I advise you see him immediately.”
“Of course, Reader. I must investigate! Advisor, fetch my D-Pants™*!”
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The advisor soon returned with the pants, tube, and accompanying D-Pack™. “Oh jeez, I hate this part,” said Mayor Shaw as he forced the thick, abrasive tube up into his descending colon.
“Ready to go, your highness?”
Lunchbox strapped on the cumbersome D-Pack™. “Ready. To the dungeon!”
---------------------
“You ever killed a man?” slurred Thom as we neared the burly walls surrounding Shaw Cathedral. We were geared in full Kevlar, and (surprisingly heavy) semi-automatic rifles hung slung over our shoulders.
“No. Well, probably not. The Confessor thinks I have and I used to disagree, but I now I don’t think my memory is good enough to warrant that.”
“If you’re talking about that testicaller nonsense, I think we can safely say you’re innocent.”
“Oh, well that’s good. Then no.”
“In that case, I want you to be prepared. The first kill is always the most… potent.” Thom paused to lick his lips. “Watching the life drain from their eyes, watching them go from living being to inanimate thing, watching their body drop like a sack of flour… good Shaw, what a rush. I want you to savour it.”
“Have you killed many people?”
“Oh yes. Too many to count. But you know, none were as… visceral… as the first. Sure there was the rush, the adrenaline, the almost… sexual… energy. But they were nowhere near the first.” He looked at me with an unhealthy gleam in his eye. “I’m still chasing that dragon.”
“You know, I think you’ll get along fabulously with the Confessor. Remind me to introduce you.”
At first I found it odd that no one thought twice about the two heavily armed and armoured men trooping straight toward Shaw Cathedral, but then I realized almost everyone was dressed about the same. Thom had chosen the perfect day to storm the Dungeon. “Happy Dress-Up-As-a-Heavily-Armed-and-Dangerous-Fugitive Day!” read the banners strung up on almost every streetlight, corner store, and parade float. Today was DUAaHAaDF Day! Back home, my totalitarian parents would never allow me to celebrate DUAaHAaDF Day, fearing that if I was allowed the heavy weaponry traditional to the holiday I would rise up and gun them down in cold blood. But here I am, finally free and partaking in the forbidden holiday I never got to experience as a child. Just goes to show that if you work hard enough, dreams can come true.
"You’re lucky you got shaved,” said Thom, “Don’t think anyone can recognize you now. Though you don’t exactly fit in either.” It was true; I was hideous, pink, and scarred. “Don’t think I can say the same for me. They definitely know I’ve defected now. Here, put this on.” He slid me a happy clown mask.
“Oh, pretty.”
“Right? Was thinking to myself, what’s everyone afraid of? Clowns, duh. Figured that since they know I’m a bad guy, might as well go all in with the intimidation.”
“That’s reasonable. But why do I have to wear this?”
“So we match, you dunce. You can’t just go on a murder spree all willy-nilly, you gotta look good while doing it too.”
We finally reached the outer gates of the cathedral, electricity humming dangerously through its links. They’d already fixed the horse hole we made when escaping. “Now this is the tricky part,” Thom said, “these gates only open for licenced testicallers and inquisitors. Since I’m no longer either, it’s apparently impossible for us to get through.” He walked toward a strange-shaped bush. “Fortunately for us, we’ve got an information advantage. I present to you the only weakness of the Cathedral’s ‘flawless’ defence system!” He lifted the twig covering off the bush-shaped object in one sweep, unveiling a confused-looking horse tied to a low peg. “Thor snuck her here while we were gearing up. Her name’s Betty.”
“Oh, cute. You know, I used to have a horse once. Her name was Betsy. She loved me.”
“…Cool. Anyways, get on. Excuse the lack of saddle, we’re a bit low on funds at the moment.” Thom swung himself gracefully onto the beast and I struggled my way on behind him. “Let’s storm this dungeon.”
* D-Pants™! This hot new product from Sinkhole Inc. allows anyone to go on the go! Simply insert the accompanying rubber tube deep into your rectum and thread the other end through the pants’ fashionable rear hole. Then attach the tube to our patented Sinkhole Inc. D-Pack™ (which weighs a convenient seventeen kilograms, allowing for easy exercise on the go! Build those calves!) for fecal processing, and you’re done! The D-Pack™ chops up any chunky bits and stores that pesky waste for later release. It can store up to five hundred millilitres of fecal waste! When full, simply press the ‘eject’ button, and all the stored matter will be evacuated through the rear chute at a rapid seventy miles an hour. For the low, low price of three easy installments of $79.99, you too can be the proud owner of your very own D-Pants™! (Tube and D-Pack™ not included.) (Warning: do not wash Sinkhole Inc. D-Pants™ more than once, the fabric is sensitive to water and will unravel. Remember to push the tube up to or above the descending colon to ensure all fecal matter is properly collected. Do not load more than five hundred millilitres of matter in the D-Pack™, as it is prone to overheating. Sinkhole Inc. is not liable for any damages, burns, or deaths accrued in the usage of D-Pants™, tube, or D-Pack™.)