Fred was a writer. Particularly fantasy, sci-fi adventures. He was well known in the fan-fiction industry as the guy whose material you just had to read. Normally, Fred was prompt and well ahead of his self-prescribed deadlines. He reveled in his writing and smirked at those who struggled with writer’s block.

Normally, Fred was on top of his game. But, lately things had changed. No more did ideas pop into his head while he slept, worked or ate. Instead nothing came to mind. When he sat down to write he stared not in awe at his own genius as streams of words flew from his hands. 

But in increasing levels of anger, frustration, and underneath it all fear. Fear of the blanking cursor that seemed to mock him in its unmoving position. After a while Fred came to the realization that the cursor was speaking to him in morse code. Surprise, surprise the cursor was mean: 

“Why don’t you write? What’s wrong?! Losing your edge!?! Did you even have one!?! Chicken! Loser!! Waster of space!!!”

After that Fred avoided the cursor choosing instead to watch YouTube, envy stroll Facebook and go for meandering walks during which Fred questioned his existence.

Yep, Fred had lost his touch no matter the amount of teeth gnashing, head-shaking and overcoming writer’s block methods he tried, nothing changed. As the deadline loomed large, Fred could no longer hide from the truth. 

He was going to miss it. 

How could he do that? 

How could he have no ideas? 

Desperate the thought of cheating came to mind. 

Why not write a subpar plot. Some filler to toss to the hungry fans, like chum to circling sharks. Oh Fred was so very tempted, but he couldn’t do it. To sully his good name with such shit work would be to put the final nail in his coffin. He could no more do that than he could stab himself in the chest. So he chose another well worn and aft chosen path. 

He chose to procrastinate. 

He cleaned his home, fixed his bike, his car and worked out his body. He talked to family and friends he hadn’t spoken to in years. 

All the while in the back of his mind the deadline marched ever closer to impaling  him. He felt each stroke of the old black circular cat clock as a mockingly looming presence that drew ever closer, stalking him. 

In his sleep, 

  while eating, 

    while cleaning, 

      while working out, 

        while surfing the web. 

Nothing stopped the ever moving of the Tick, Tock of the clock. 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Until the ninth hour arrived and here Fred was shivering and breaking out into cold sweats the night before the true final deadline was due. Fred had eaten his friend's cooking and quickly came to the unpleasant realization as to why his mom always said,

> “You can’t eat at everybody’s house.” 

He was on the toilet. Taking an unwelcome shit. 

A nice way of saying he had some serious diarrhea. 

Fred had been woken up out of his sleep to run/crawl to the bathroom and expel his guts. As he sat on the porcelain throne and thanked God for indoor plumbing he was struck with inspiration. 

What if….

What if… George, (the main character in his latest story series), was struck with the runs. What if he was struck with the runs in the middle of battle and it couldn’t wait and he asked his opponent for a break and his opponent sensing his despair caved and let him relieve himself? 

Or better yet what if he had to go while giving an Oscar worthy motivational speech to his troops? 

What if the opposition and George bonded over such an event and became fast friends?

What if…?

The thoughts and ideas that Fred would've killed for (and the idea of homicide did pop in head once or twice) came thick and fast. 

Fred smiled with joy which quickly morphed into a grimace as he grunted and a stream of shit slushed out of him and hit the water below with a loud splash. 

The splash was so violent that it reached up to soak his already sweat covered butt. 

“SHIT! CRAP!! FUCK!!!” cursed Fred. 

He looked around desperate to find something to write down the ideas that swirled in his head. He knew as only a writer can that to delay in writing down his ideas was to lose that unique thought and the chances of finding it again might never come. 

Fred looked into all the places he could reach but nothing could be found. 

No pens under the bathroom sink to his right and no paper on the counter top only the toilet tissue on his left. No phone within arms or pocket reach. No tablet, laptop or voice recorder, no devices. 

“No nothing! Shit! Shit!! Sheeeeetttt!!!!” Fred’s voice went high and his back arched as another spasm ran through his gut and he pushed another stream out that left behind a burning but sweaty Fred and a smell that made him wish he was dead.

“Oh God…” wailed Fred in physical pain and mental anguish. Just then his phone alarm went off. He could just make out the light as it flashed and played “Short Skirt” by Cake. If only he had a broom but no broom was near. 

Maybe, thought Fred, just maybe, I can stand up and run and get it right quick. Just as Fred braced his legs a torrent of violent spasms ripped through his gut. 

By the time Fred came to, he found himself slumped over, his head hanging over his knees. Breathing in sharply, he coughed and choked as the noxious brew that was his biological waste wafted up to his noise. 

He recoiled quickly, only to slump back over the toilet lid, and rest his body against the cool ceramic. His body shivered both illogically hot and cold. It shimmied and shook, as it tried to get rid of his very own shit show. 

“Well there goes that idea, '' muttered Fred. Closing his eyes against the harsh glare of the bathroom light, Fred breathed. Slow and steady, grunting in pain, every once in a while, as another stream left his body. 

The sound of the phone alarm brought him back from his light doze. He opened one eye and glared in the direction of his phone. It’s bright winking light mocking him at his inability to reach it. 

Sighing, Fred decided he wasn’t beat yet and looked around moving only his eyes first. Spotting nothing of use, he slowly, methodically, moved his neck, sweeping the bathroom from left to right, and finally, down there, he spotted it. 

The thing that just might save him, the toilet plunger. 

Huffing out a soft breath, Fred gingerly sat up, moving slowly and carefully, he picked up the plunger. Pausing to take panting breaths, which resulted in several spewing streams. He continued on his quest. Leaning forward as far as he dared, he stretched out his arm. 

He stared at it as it seemed to move in slow motion, wobbly and shaky as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Yet, he persevered stretching as much as possible to reach. Swinging out the plunger with a jerk of the wrist it just reached the phone cord.  

Fred was ecstatic, “Okay, just breathe, you got this, okay.” Taking a deep breath he carefully swung the plunger to try and hook the cord once, twice, three times by the fifth, Fred wanted to scream at the seemingly futility of reaching the phone. 

Defeated, he leaned back, letting the plunger fall from his limp fingers. 

He was tired. 

His stomach felt like it had been pulled from his body and used as Mike Tyson`s punching bag. His asshole felt like he imagined the gateway to hell must feel. Hot, burning and well used. He definitely felt every one of those spicy chillies she had used to cook with. Most importantly, who was he trying to kid, he was nowhere close to reaching his phone, there had been a solid three feet between the plunger and the phone cord. 

Fred sat there on his porcelain throne wallowing in despair, funk and pain. So deep was he in his despair, that it took several minutes before he felt it. The cold gaze of an accessing predator. His body tensed as he opened his eyes and came face to face with the glowing green eyes of Demon.

Demon was his newly acquired foster fail cat from the Fallen Angels Animal Shelter.