Bowels busting and seemingly no where to run you are almost resigned to soiling your breeches just like that chap Skidmark at last weeks game.

Head swiveling and this time not on the look out for the Feds but a suitable place to offload you see in the near distance the holy glow of what seems like a public toilet.

Waddling over your body knows release is getting close, your sphincter begins to pulse, you start to sweat whislt you launch yourself down the stairs.

Screeching into the nearest cubicle your jockey shorts just make it down in time before a seeming flock of sparrows escapes from your arse.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck me.... that's good" You intone to your self, not expecting a response you hear:

"It sounded good my friend, an excellent tone and quite the spicy aroma.  Please don't flush the bowl when you have finished, I specialise in fortune telling from the size shape, texture and way the log sits up.  Describe your leaving to me, cross my palm with a little silver and I'll gladly let you know what life has in store."

Iron Mikes blood ran cold. The last thing you expect after dropping the regular as clockwork 11AM Protein shake duce is a voice praising the aroma of your shit. Adrenalin dumps into his bloodstream, this was a fight or flight situation & everyone knows Iron Mike loves a scrap. He begins to box shadows around in the cubicle.

'Thith is insane...' Mike thinks to himself. This must be coke psychosis. He then hears the offer of a fortune being told. 'Fuck it' thinks Iron Mike, 'lets get real wierd with it'.

"I would dethcribe it ath a thandpaper poo, it ith one of my leatht favorite pooth. Thith fella didn't feel good & I got a lot of fricthion on the colon. I knew there would be thhort term pain, henthe my flight into the thtall but it’th kind of like tearing a band aid off – jutht do it quickly. Ath for phythical propertieth the girth ith a 4/10 (with HeadCoach size being a 10) pretty dark, damn dangerouth jutht like me"

With that Mike throws $5 under the cubicle wall & prays to god this is just the voices in his head talking to him.

A pair of oversized, piss stained, court pumps appear under the stall door. A hand reaches down and snatches the grubby $5 note from your hand. A muffled voice, strangely echoed in the tiled underground toilet speaks out:

"My friend, I really do appreciate your description I assume this is an account only by using the well honed sense of touch your sphincter has?

Ideally I'd need you to step out of the stall and take a good poke around myself but, in this instance I'm already getting a good feeling about this."

The voice pauses, you hear them taking in a massive breath through their nose....

"Mmmmmmm, Bisto."

You begin to question if this is really a shite poking fortune teller or some kind of weirdo fetishist, much like Grin-22 back at the HQ, he professes 'woe is me, the laundry guy' but you've caught him twice now wearing your soiled pants on your head frapping his chipolata whilst humming the star spangled banner.

"I see, I see a vest top embalzoned with the letter A, B,"

You make an involuntary gasp... Could it be?...

".....no C?"

You cough, as surreptitiously as possible...

"The letter C! a fat father like figure handing you a display case - Yes the Creatine stench is strong here. The display case holds a set of duelling pistols......

Alas, without poking around that's all you're getting pal and for a measly 5 bucks I may add.  Be sure to come back next time.  Tell your friends!"

You pull up your strides, exit stage left and make your way back home.

Iron Mike was shocked. It was all real. The voice, the piss stained pumps, the hand grasping for his $5. 'Well at least I don't need to lay off the coke now' muses Mike as he heads back to the JFMAST training camp. His walk is uncomfortable, he is certain in his panic he forgot to wipe. Still its nothing the key cog in the JFMAST team, the laundry extraordinaire Grinn-22 won't be able to sort out.

He pushes open the door to the state of the art training facilities. Spotting the man, the myth, the mass monster HeadCoach Iron Mike lets out a high pitched shout

"HEY COATTH, you will never believe what jutht happened to me in a public toilet..."

"TAKE A LAP IRON MIKE" pipes up assistant coach FrizzleFry

MikeTyson bursts in from the public toilets having forgotten to wash his hands.  Before MikeTyson has the chance to give him the customary team high-five greeting, FrizzleFry uses his quick thinking skills he has sharpened over the years by assistant coaching and tells him to take a lap, thus avoiding a potentially gross high-five.  Pleased with his cunning, he realizes he too must visit the stall.  "And yes, I'm taking my coffee with me to the bathroom" he yells back to the judging expressions on the teams' faces behind him.

He takes a seat and sips from his coffee.  He smiles knowing it will still be hot by the time he is finished, as FrizzleFry has conditioned his body to where he excretes 2 small (but hardened) pebble-shaped pieces per sitting due to the lean protein and lack of ruffage in his diet.  This tends to take only a minute or so and is only necessary twice per week.  Doesn't even need to wipe, as the stonelike waste leaves no trail behind itself upon expelling.

He gets up.  Hardly even any point to flushing the remains. are so miniscule.  He washes his hands before exiting.

The shit house custodian barely has time to get up from his stool (no pun intended) before FrizzleFry has been in and out.

"Muck Fe!" he exclaims, the back of @FizzleFry already leaving the stall and heading up the stairs, the cumped punt taking them 2 at a time.

"Didn't even have the chance to offer him a spray of my $1 colon [sic] aftershave.... ack well, lets see what he left"

Cancid looks into the toilet bowl expecting some kind of grizzled mess but all he is staring at is a small tide mark around the edge of the water and an imprint of sweaty buttocks on the toilet seat.

"Amazing..... a magic shite..." He sniffs the air, lowering himself so his nostrils are well within the confines of the ceramic shitting receptacle.

"Great things....... great, great things" he mutters to himself, pulling a pencil from behind his ear and giving it a lick he jots down a few notes...

"Travel, I can see travel but not many miles, quite local and a shining phallic tower emblazoned with the letters H & Q"

Initially being taken back by the man now interrupting his morning ritual, Jarrick decided to place a $20 bill in the palm of the mans hand.

"Fine mystery man, show me what you got."

Jarrick motioned his had over the toilet to reveal numerous small heart shaped lumps swirling around the bottom of the bowl. The smell was light making sure to not be to troublesome on the nose but still seemed to leave a lingering fart smell in the air. It was a brown in color. Very little toilet paper was used as it appeared almost no fecal remains plagued any of the squares used.

"So funny man, out with it." he said with a chuckle.

HeadCoach slid into the 12th Street Public Toilets, his favorite thinking spot in town and the jewel of high-brow Detroit nightlife, sports section of the newspaper tucked into the back of his pants like a tail. He'd made a note to promote this fabulous venue as a key component of the underground tourism sector but had been worried of the inconvenience of lines & crowds when he really had to go. Regardless, he found his favorite stall and hunkered down for the long haul. 

When coaching got tough, he rested easy knowing this sanctuary would always be here for him. 

After a half-hour of dominant fibrous purging, Coach folded up the paper and exited, making sure not to flush on his way out - like always. Let's see what the tea leaves, so to speak, say this time...

Skidmark walks into the restroom, curious to see if all the hype regarding this destination was what it was cracked up to be. The air in the lavatory is still ripe with the stench of HeadCoach's dinner three nights ago. Skid claims the stall right next to HeadCoach's titanium reinforced bowl and ponders what to do next. Normally, in such a setting, he would opt for the upper-decker, but this time he wanted to make sure his droppings were found before they could break apart...

*BRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAP*

He tucks a crisp $10 bill into the baseball-sized hole in the stall and waits for a hand to reach out and grab it. Instead, a flaccid penis appears through the hole. This is more than Skidmark had bargained for. He pulled his pants up quick and got the hell out of there, never bothering to wipe. Toilet paper was for pretentious people...

Hobbs clenched his thighs together as he half walked, half crouched his way through Detroit. He'd been engaged in running battles with BricktownCL and his motley crew of associates all day, and had lost count of the number of bodyguards who'd been winged in the line of duty. It was proper arse-clenching stuff, and before long Hobbs felt the familiar rise of the fight or flight response. Adrenaline flooded his system, and with it, and insatiable desire to excavate his bowels as quickly as possible.

He moved down the iconic stairwell to his destination; the 12 street public toilets. Relieved, he sat down and let nature take it's course. I t was not pleasant. Hobbs had a horrible diet; not enough fibre despite the half plant based vegan diet he subsided on. No solids in sight, a crescendo of unpleasant sludge emptied into the bowl below.

"Ahhhhhh" he proclaimed contented. An enourage of bodyguards crowded outside the cubicle, as expected for a man who wore tags of Extremely Well Protected around his neck for all to see (??). Hobbs secretly hoped nobody knew he'd done what he had done in the bowl, for he, a 300 lb champion of a man had poo shame. 

Jester had never seen nor heard about anything as classy as a “public” toilet. He was just used to going wherever and whenever the urge hit him.  Middle of the street?? Sure. His couch in the crew quarters? Why not. It was a natural thing to have to go and he didn’t see why people made such a big deal about it.

But - he was a wise guy now. Not just some little goomba. He had to carry himself with an heir of dignity and class and this was most definitely the way.

what a classy place this was. Doors, running water, soap. Mmmhmmmmmmmmm.

Jester tinkled with a smile on his face this day.

It's been over a week since the last time Skidmark ventured into the 12th Street Public Toilets. His last visit was rather unsettling, but seeing as how it was the place where all the Detroit social elites would gather, it was his duty as a man of significance to make an appearance...

The place was strangely quiet. No sounds of ducks emerging from the stalls, but an unusual smell was coming from one of them. Against his better judgment, Skidmark quietly walked towards the stall to see what was the cause of the odor.  He slowly opened the stall door and was immediately aghast...

"WHY GOD WHY!!!!!"

It was the decaying corpse of JFMAST. Some coward shot him while he was on the toilet. No doubt, the only way they could get to him with his ninja-like evasion tactics.

This is a disgrace! Our city's finest establishment has been stained. Someone is going to pay for this...

Iron Mike was happy to finally be back home in Detroit. He was less happy that his 3 bodyguards kept getting death pelleths thrown in their direction by the de facto head of Detroit BricktownCL. 

Mike has been doing his bit to promote 12th Street tourist attraction the public toilet & has a heavy weight on his colon so cant wait to stop by to see what the future holds. Mike is shocked to see police tape & cop cars with blues & twos going. He spots Skidmark.

"What the fucketh is going? Did HeadCoach get into the tacos again & murder a toilet?"

Skidmark looks glum. 'No, there has been a murder. JFMAST bit the bullet while taking a dump'

"Ah fucketh"

Iron Mike is switching his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. 

"I am sorreth to hear that. Boat drinks for our friend...Listen man I gotta go...Like really gotta go."

Iron Mike waddles away clenching his cheeks with the same force he did back in the old memorial all start team communal shower days.

Hobbs had spent the night celebrating. He'd had more than one strawberry woo woo, along with a selection of light beers perfectly selected so as not be too bubbly. Gas was the enemy of athletes, and Hobbs was a specific type of athlete. A sports entertainment athlete. That meant some days he wouldn't need to do anything more than look menacing, and some days he'd need to give it his all and spinebuster his way through life. 

His trip to Detroit was pleasant, he'd engaged in a few minor heart raising skirmishes with the Bricktown gang, and then made his way down to 12th street. Whilst there he spotted Headcoach waddling along with his wallet dangling loosely out of his fanny pack. Unable to resist, he grabbed it and tried to run. Before he could get 20 yards away he was tackled by the behemoth of a man. Jesus christ this man was large. I was strong, but not strongh enough to lift a 500lb athlete. Coach beat me, gouged my eyes and scratched my cheeks. It was like a fighting an angry bear.

Battered and bloody, I limped down to the 12th Street Toilets; the sanctuary of Detroit. The last bastion and the final throne. Ignoring the scene of JFMAST, I moved into a cubicle to drop a bloody stool.

Indian Jones had been hunting for treasure for most of his adult life and over the years had found some pretty amazing things such as the Ark of the Covenant, The Holy Grail, Nurhachi's Ashes and so on and so on. He peered inside deciding it was much too bright to enjoy an authentic archaeological expedition and so he flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. Then he lit the oil soaked wooden torch he carried with him at all times, his constant companion. The light from the flame revealed the deranged look upon his face, wide eyed he pressed forward.

"Please excuse me sirs." He said to the people gathered there, careful not to set them alight as he moved in crouched fashion, simultaneously trying to ignore them and forget they existed. He was on a solo adventure after all. Creeping through the darkness of the public toilets checking for booby traps and snakes he sensed he was close to the artifact. Mainly because it was right there in front of him sitting in the urinal.

He set the torch down against the wall and then with shaking hands he carefully reached out towards the treasure;

The 12 Street Public Toilets Urinal Cake.

It was smaller than the legend had led him to believe however it was sort of wet to the touch and held the aroma of fresh urine which was a good sign of it's authenticity. 'Should I lick it?' he thought to himself. 'No' his mind replied. 'That would be a madness.'

It was then he felt the eyes of the toilet dwellers upon him so he held the treasure aloft and with great excitement and pride said, "This belongs in a museum!" And he wasn't wrong. But it was time to leave before one of the toilet dwellers tried to steal the treasure from him, not out of jealousy or greed but legend said the sacred Urinal Cake would never be allowed to leave this hallowed ground. He removed his hat, placed the urinal cake inside then put it back on his head. Some blend of urine and urinal cake fluid dripped down over his face. Oh what a joyous day!

He picked up the torch and made a dash for the exit before the toilet dwellers could stop him, flicking the light switch once more on his way out. Manners cost nothing after all.

Assistant Coach FrizzleFry strides into the restroom only to be nearly knocked on his hardened, tight glutimus by Indiana-Jones who was running out the door of the public toilets.  "Hey excuse ME!", FrizzleFry calls after the man, which is his go-to line whenever someone bumps into him rudely.  Satisfied with being the one to get the witty last word in over this mishap, he makes his way inside. 

He gives a polite smile to CancidRunt who is already handing FrizzleFry a paper towel in hopes for a tip prior to FrizzleFry even having used the bathroom yet.  This is a tired scheme that FrizzleFry is growing tired of, but like always, he obliges the man. "Oh why thank you!" he says with all the fake enthusiasm he could muster and hands him some folded bills.  FrizzleFry continues on with the usual charade of pretending to dry his already dry hands before discarding the paper towel in the overflowing trash bin.  Doing this only serves to enable the man, and FrizzleFry knows this.  But he does not wish to harm the man's feelings.  FrizzleFry often wonders why he even cares if he does or not.

He unzips his tight red gym shorts (fashionably high shorts that end around his upper thigh) and steps up to the stained urinal.  "Not even a urinal cake in this thing" he thinks as he shakes his head.  He looks into the unflushed pool inside the toilet and takes note of the dark yellowish tint of the waste, a sign that those that used this urinal before him were suffering from some serious dehydration and were in need of electrolytes.  He takes a mental note to pick up some sports drinks for his entire team, and decides he'd pick up both bottles from the corner store once he had taken care of his daily business here in the 12th Street Public Toilets.

He lets out his customary audible post-piss "Ahhhh" and wonders if he would even bother doing it of CancidRunt wasn't standing there watching him.  It would be a strange thing to do if he were all alone.  Why even bother saying "Ahhhh" after you urinate if no one is even around to hear you say it. He zips his shorts and makes his way to the sink to wash his hands.  CancidRunt eagarly sticks another paper towel in his face. "Oh hey thanks!" exclaims FerizzleFry.  He hands CancidRunt yet another tip and leaves (Disclaimer: the tips were both NON-HARASSING tips.  NOT FOR PURPOSES OF HARASSMENT)

Another day, another trip to the pride of Detroit and envy of the world: the 12th Street Public Toilets. Though his favorite urinal cake had mysteriously gone missing, the establishment remained a source of great comfort to Coach; doors hanging sideways off their hinges, the chalk outline of JFMAST still visible in one of the corners, Hobbs and Grin-22 soaking their mug-bloodied clothes in the sinks. It was the kind of place to make friends, or watch smallpox develop in real-time. Coach wondered whether this place would stand long after he was gone, long after his stewardship of this fine city - the mug capital of the world - was over. Through the broken stall door - where Coach sat having a poo in plain sight of anyone and with a view of everything - he cast his glance over the toilets once more, taking in their grimy ambience, and he thought, "If this is my legacy, it is a good one". 

Iron Mike was back at his spiritual home the 12th Street Public Bathroom. The usual stench of shit had a tinge of girly perfume. Mike was aghast, he knew that scent from the poverty three star motel out in Vegas...Hobbs had been here. 

"Is nothing fucking sacred anymore" Mike mutters under his breath. My one place of solace and serenity violated by a heathen. I bet that sissy even wipes before leaving...Mike spits on the bathroom stall floor.

He drops the kids off at the pool with a loud splash before hitching up his JFMAST sweat pants & sadly walking back up the stairs. Iron Mike had heard the news he had fell from #4VIP Glory. The models were no longer returning his calls, his line of VIP Credit was drying up...

Iron Mike knew never to give up, or if he did feel like giving up to bits someones ear off. He was on the comeback trail, following his enormous dump he was feeling lean & mean.

"You can do this Mike, Back to the top old boy" 

Hobbs returned to the scene of many, many crimes. The 12th Street Public Toilets were covered in in shit, blood and grime. It was also the premier tourist destination for Detroit, and only place you could go other tham D0m3n1c's excellent bar and coffee shop if you wanted to have something nice to eat in a relaxed atmosphere. Despite that, with vendetta firmly in his hate Hobbs looked around the crowded room (Crowded of course with 180-200 bodyguards), he knew he would have to make a move to get this place destroyed or turned around.

Candid Runt was MIA, no doubt run for the border to escape the terrors that ran Detroit. An absentee owner would help get City Hall to shut this place down, of course.

He took out his pen and began to write on the gloryhole wall where he knew all would see it.

"Dear Headcoach, enough is enough and it's time for a change. This place is filthy and digusting, and has the worst kind of ball games imaginable. I will be writing to city hall to shut this place down, unless you are willing to pay me the $35,000,000 and/or 10 credits that Jaws owes me. I will also duel Jaws until he is nought but a puddle of fish gloop caviar on the floor of this very building. Ahh fuck is this too much to write on a wall? I'm running out of space. I should have written this smaller to start with. Why am I still writing. Stop writing Hobbs you noob. Oh. Noob. Hoobs. Hey, I get it now!"

Satisfied, he withdrew from the toilets, but not without letting out a squeaky fart first. 

As Grin-22 entered the world famous 12th Street Public toilets, he was assaulted by a terrible stench. It wasn't the smell of stale urine, the pungent waft of shit which decorated the walls or the acrid mix of blood and....other bodily fluids, no. This was the unmistakable aroma of failure. 

"Hobbs..." Grin muttered to himself with a shake of his head as he went into the stall to take a leak. As he let loose a mighty stream, he saw some fresh markings around the gloryhole. He hoped it was a dirty rhyme. He loved those. Straining his eyes, he couldn't quite make out the pigeon scrawl; guy was probably ripping the head off it when he wrote out the words. He leaned closer to look and suddenly heard the smattering of piss on fresh leather. "Oh fuck!" he cried, jumping backwards, coating the stall in the process. He'd accidentally turned his whole body when he tried to read the words and now everything was sodden. It looked like the gym mats after Mrs HeadCoach's yoga session. 

With a sigh Grin tucked himself back into his sopping wet trousers and hobbled his way out, hoping nobody saw him. Whatever had been written there had been washed away and was gone forever. Unlike the OC failures which would haunt Hobbs until the day he was dead.