My innards and I have had an ongoing battle for the last thirty years or so. Some times long-term battles break out and blaze out of control, making for bad days, weeks, or months. Other times there will be brief skirmishes that are short but no less intense. This is a tale of one such skirmish.
In addition to being a press operator at a small print shop and going to school full time, I was delivering pizzas at night to make ends meet for my young family. The job is simple enough: grab a couple of pizzas and drive to the next address. Most deliveries went without a hitch; however, the devils that dealt inside of me had laid devious plans that were at once both brilliant and torturous.
Having just returned from a delivery, I grabbed the next pie in line and headed out the door. Not yet to my car, I felt the first rumblings of what would later prove to be one of the single most heinous half-hour stretches I have ever endured. I knew this delivery was not far away, so I foolishly decided to take the pizza to its intended destination and deal with the impending doom upon my return.
I got in my car and sped off, knowing that I had little time in which to complete my mission. Within a few short minutes, the rumble I had experienced became an all-out guerrilla attack. My sphincter contracted and quivered, trying desperately to prevent the escape of the evil that lurked at its door. Sweat beads sprung from my forehead and my throat clenched, as wave after brutal wave of cramps crushed my lower abdomen.
I had arrived at my destination, quickly grabbed the pizza, and jumped out of the car, praying to all that was holy that I could maintain control of this demon for a few more minutes. I ran to the door and knocked, rang the doorbell, and knocked again. No answer. I rang once more. By now my asshole was literally quivering, threatening to unleash a torrent of foulness the likes of which have only been previously imagined. The poopy dance in full swing, I hammered on the door one more time before abandoning the pie on the front step and running for the car. I was rewarded with the slow, methodical thump of distant footsteps approaching the door.
Approximately six weeks later ( in shit time), the door swung open and I was greeted by a large man who was in no hurry to complete our transaction.
"How much?" he inquired.
"Twelve fifty-six," I replied. My voice was shaking so badly the guy probably thought I was from a weird foreign country where the natives speak in tremolo.
With unimaginable slowness, he removed the wallet from his pants and, rifling through bills, pulled a twenty out and offered it to me. Now I had to make change. SHIT! Sweat soaked my shirt and rolled off of my face in tiny rivulets. My bunghole quivered and sang, but I was absolutely determined not to soil myself on this man's porch.
Finally back in the car, I sped toward the restaurant, with teeth clenched and palms sweating. I had never experienced this level of discomfort. By now, I was convinced that Beelzebub himself had been called into the fray and was doing his level best to take me out.
Like a brilliant, shining beacon of freedom and redemption, the door of the restaurant beckoned. I slammed on the brake and threw the car into park, not even bothering to kill the ignition. Wit one more desperate lunge, I blew through the door and took a hard right into the mercifully empty bathroom, my hands frantically working at the button on my uniform pant. I hit the toilet with my ass blazing, spewing forth a toxic slurry of soupy, smoldering wretchedness.
And then it happened: The very gates of Hell opened and Satan himself emerged from my ass. All horns and fire, his rage would not be contained. The burn seared my tender o-ring and brought tears to my eyes. Sweat pouring down my face, my hands clenching the toilet seat in a death grip, I gave one last great push and vanquished this unholy entity.
Fully expecting to see actual fire and horns, I looked down to see the level of damage that had been wrought. Used groceries stared back, roiling and tumbling, slowly coming to a rest after the boiling turmoil of expulsion. With every turn, every roll, every move, the stench grew, thick as bad gravy. The splash-back had created an unholy coating up the sides of the bowl, under the edge of the seat, and even left a splash or two on the floor.
Nearly a half a roll of toilet paper later, the vast majority of the cleanup was complete, and I was more than ready to leave the stifling stench of the tiny bathroom. I flushed and paused at the door, looking back and mentally tipping my hat to the internal demons. The battle had been won, but this war was far from over.