The following piece of fiction contains bizarre and digusting images. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

(Ending Version 2)

“Hello.” said Roger. The line remained staticy, though Roger could hear a sound, somewhat like a voice echoing in a tin can. “Hello? I can’t hear you very well. Can you hear me?” asked Roger, not noticing an inky cloud puffing out of the reciever. When he saw it, he dropped the phone on the floor. The black smoke filtered out of the phone swiftly; in the cloud he could see the face of a young woman. He fell over himself, tumbling to the floor. The amorphous cloud grew; a dozen faces floated in the cloud. Each face was unique, except that every face writhed in pain, sneering with mouths lined with fangs. Roger pushed himself away from the apparition as dozens of arms and legs began to form on the cloud’s perimeter.

“What are you!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. He reached for a knife from his galley kitchen’s counter. His hand shook as he pointed the blade at the apparition. One of the hands swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. He shouted in pain as the thing pulled him towards itself. Its voice, echoed and tinny, called to him.

“We need you.”  it said as it wrenched his wrist around. Roger screeched in pain as the creature pulled at him. One of the mouths sunk its fangs into his flesh as several hands groped clumsily at him while others held him fast. Looking up at the apparition, Roger felt faint and powerless. He felt as though he left his body; he watched as the creature tore at his clothes. He watched as the mouths bit at him, sucking his blood. He winced as the scene became too disgusting to watch, but he could not look away. The apparition had many genitals; some male, some female. No! Stop! STOP! He tried to cry out, but the apparition was pulling his mouth open, pushing a tongue down his throat. He gagged, almost vomiting; he felt helpless and broken…

When he awoke, he was still bleeding. He pulled himself to the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash over him. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and spotted. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. He rushed from the shower and saw that his face was heavily wrinkled. I look like I aged 80 years! What the hell did that thing do to me? As he looked in the mirror, he could see the apparition behind him, a hand reaching out and clasping him painfully on the shoulder.

“We want more.” said the creature, speaking in Roger’s voice and looking at him with Roger’s youthful face.

“No!” screamed Roger pleadingly, tears welling in his eyes.

“Then another. Bring us another. If not, we will be back.” The apparition slowly disappated back into the telephone, leaving behind only a dial tone. Roger nervously grabbed at the phone and terminated the call. Naked and alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. His eyes fell on the torn clothes on the floor and the blood, his blood. He looked at the phone number and knew that there was only one way to deliver himself from the creature and what might be endless, nightly torture.

The next day, he went to the super market and went into the bathroom. He had taken a permanent marker with him; he started to write the phone number on the wall of one of the stalls. He felt guilt filling him as he scrawled ”For a Good Time, Call Annie” above the number. The words became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He left the stall, taking his marker with him, hopeful and fearful.  

The following story was inspired by a trip to the bathroom while I was at work. There were two telephone numbers written on the wall and I found myself wondering whose they were and why they would be writing their number on the walls of a men’s room.

————————————————————————————————————————– 

Warning: The following short story contains imagery that some may find offensive or distasteful. This story may not be suitable for all audiences, as it involves sexuality, adult-like themes, and some pottyish humor. Reader discretion is advised.  

 In other words: If you are offended by this story, try coming back later. I might have something more to your taste.

Shit! I need to piss!thought Roger as he raced to the bathroom closest to his cubicle. He had put off his trip to the bathroom as long as he could; he was beyond just doing a pee dance. It had become a full blown emergency. He pushed open the door to the men’s room with all the fury of an offensive tackle. He started to unbutton his pants as he slammed shut the stall door. He hated urinals with a passion; he couldn’t see why when in public, he had to relieve himself in such a public way. He let his bladder do its job and felt a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. As he finished, he decided that while here, he might as well tend to other pressing business that had recently occurred to him needed tending. He let his pants fall and he took a seat.

The beige partitions which made up the stall had very little in the way of graffiti on them. His co-workers were proud of their work place; at least most of them were. By the toilet paper container mounted on the wall, a very well drawn cartoon of the secretary at reception drew his eye. She was drawn with massively heaving breasts and pouty lips that Angelina Jolie would envy. A poorly drawn, disembodied cock was furiously discharging onto her head. Roger smirked, thinking about what it would be like to… Wait! What’s that?he thought as he spied a phone number written lightly on the wall in a bubbly, girlie script. He pondered it for a moment, then it left his mind once he flushed the toilet. He didn’t think about it again until lunch time.

He sat alone, reading a book about men stabbing each-other with swords. As his attention waned, he thought about the number. He thought about whose number it could be. It could be a guy, but the writing is so feminine. Well yeah, it would be, because it would be a gay guy. What if it was one of the cleaning ladies? That would explain why the number wasn’t washed off. Then again, the picture wasn’t washed off either. Maybe it belongs to the girlfriend of one of the guys? Maybe he’s looking to share… He thought of the possibilities and his mind raced. Could someone have put it up for revenge? Could it be an ex’s number? Then, a thousand neurons fired in his brain: Is a woman working here so hard up that she would secretly enter the men’s room and scrawl her own number on the wall? 

He thought about that possibility through the rest of the day; hardly able to concentrate on his work, his mind wandered to which woman the number could belong to. There was the young girl two rows over who always wore dresses; she had a very lean frame and long legs. He imagined what it would be like to have those legs wrapped around him. He imagined Irene, a zaftig girl from the third floor, dancing naked in his bedroom. The thought of her voluptuous body glistening in the morning light made it uncomfortable to continue sitting. He went back to the bathroom, furtively taking a sheet of copy paper and a pen with him. He quietly opened the door, and immediately smelled Fat Brian in the stall at the far end of the bathroom. Roger thanked God that the stall he entered earlier was empty. He breathed in small gasps as he wrote the number down. 

Roger heard Fat Brian flush his toilet, so he tried to rush out of the stall. A wave of anxiety washed over him: What if he sees me leave without flushing? He’ll think I left a submarine for another sailor to decommission. Roger flushed the toilet and heard Fat Brian stirring about, turning on the faucet. He knew he’d have to go out there and wash his hands. If he didn’t, he reasoned that Fat Brian would wonder why he flushed and then stood around in the stall. Roger put on his best bathroom face, which was a blank expression, and went to the sink. Fat Brian was violently rubbing a paper towel on his shirt; his big belly had settled on a wet spot on the counter, causing him no end of frustration.

“Look at this! Soaked!” ranted Fat Brian. “You’d think people would wipe the counter if they splashed it, but no! No one ever cleans up after themselves. It’s infuriating, you know?” Roger nodded his head in what could be construed as agreement, though it was more indifferent than anything else. He washed his hands as Fat Brian continued complaining in a never-ending burbling. Roger just continued feigning attention until he found a chance to leave when the boss entered the bathroom. Roger returned to his cubical and looked at the telephone number eagerly. He watched the clock as the last hours of his work day slipped away. He started planning on when he would call the number.

(Continued Tomorrow)