Imperium strolls out to the Detroit toilets to do some costume changing like Clark would before he would wear his tight blue spandex. Coming out to Detroit was more of a matter of handling some business, mugging business that is. Before any sort of mugging could seriously be attained, Imperium needed to desperately enhance the vision with which he had. It was as bad as a bat whatever that saying meant. 

Imperium walked into the restrooms but the smell wreaked of some sort of dead stench. Suddenly, a noise was heard. It sounded like someone struggling to raise their pants back up. Listening carefully, Imperium could hear a weird grunt. The grunt was a familiar grunt, one heard many times before...

HeadCoach it must be. 

IMperium quickly ran out of the restroom yet to relieve himself and rushed down to the nearest gas station. Hopefully it was a neighborhood were drugs were not used so they didnt lock the station up and not allow Imperium to use the restroom. Did that make sense? Imperiums own thoughts seemed a bit off for himself. Oh well. 

Iron Mike had thucked up.

Things were going great on his super sunday. DFP drugs had been sold. Multiple sets of squats had been completed. Even his plan to hold a, soon to be a smash hit, boxing compeition were gaining momentum. How could life get any better?

Well here is what went down friendth. Iron Mike's eagle eye spotted HeadCoach at home in his garden, precariously balanced on a ladder trying to peer into his bedroom window. 'Poor Coath' I mused to myself. It would be a shame if anyone was to lift his wallet while he was trying to find out what Mrs Coath & her 'yoga' trainer were up to. I sneaked up to Coath & slowly raised my hand towards his pocket. Needleth to say the baddeth man on the planet is not a stealthy man. The beating Coath gave me was fantastic. A real tribute to how we do things down in mug city. I was proud. When I regained consciousness I picked up my teeth from the lawn & headed down to the world renowned 12th Street Public bathroom to get cleaned up.

The gauntlet was laid down. The challenge accepted. With support provided by twigs, Hobbs of Summerlin, Las Vegas, banner of ball games felt safe enough to enter the 12th Street Toilets battleground once again. He saw Grin-22 emerge from a cubicle covered in bodily fluids. This was not unusual, other than the fact it was piss rather than the other kind but that type of behaviour would soon be stamped out. He was followed into the toilets by 180-200 men, this again was not unusual, as Hobbs was used to visiting toilets followed and surrounded by men, but this time it wasn't personal. No no. This was business.

He carried with him a piece of plywood that he immediately tried to nail to block the whole between cubicles. It wasn't effective. The nails couldn't quite grip. Luckily he'd thought of this and brought with him his No More Nails product with him (Patent pending). This was super effective and secured the plywood in place. Nothing was pulling this baby off.

The first stone had been thrown, and Hobbs knew that once the rest of Vegas arrived the scouring of the toilets would begin in vain. 

Hobbs pinned a note to the wall for anybody worried about the facilities, it read:

"For those in need, fear not. You shall not be caught short. Simply make your way to the Detroit Public Library"

It was time for Assistant Coach FrizzleFry's bi-weekly visit to the rest room, as he had disciplined his body to excrete waste only twice a week, meaning his body was working at 100% efficiency and most nutrients consumed were utilized and burned during his vigorous day-to-day.  He passed Hobbs on his way in, who was busy nailing a sign to the wall.  Assistant Coach FrizzleFry watches him as he leaves noting that he didn't wash his hands either, a typical las Vegas dirtball move.

He enters his favorite stall, the third stall from the left, drops his shocking red short shorts to his ankles and takes a seat.  He notes a few smeared brown streaks inside the bowl, a sure sign that the toilet had probably been unwashed since its inception.  He also notices smaller brown smear streaks on the top of the toilet, a sure sign that Southsider had most likely been in this very stall doing lines of some very good brown coke.

He forgot to bring his newspaper in with him, The Detroit Free Press, which usually helped,  Oh well, he lamented.  Reading the scribbled graffiti on the stall wall would have to suffice.  He frowned at the "Basketball sux"scribbling, most likely penned by Hobbs himself while nailing his plywood sign to the wall.  Assistant Coach FrizzleFry wishes Hobbs had instead nailed the plywood to the gaping hole in the stall wall, the one that caused poor Skidmark such angst just weeks earlier.  His eyes scan the other witty remark including a cartoonish rendering of HeadCoach performing carnal acts on his estranged wife and one that read "For a good time call Ambichous" and listed her phone number.  Assistant Coach FrizzleFry's frown grew deeper as we pulled his own pen from his assistant coach collared shirt breast pocket and scribbled out Ambichous's name and number from the wall, as he felt this was very inappropriate and not a good reflection of what the 12th Street Public Toilets were all about.

A "plop" can be heard from inside the toilet bowl.  Some of the waste water splashed up and struck Assistant Coach FrizzleFry's buttocks.  He hated when that happened.  Another plop, however this time no water splashed up against his cheeks.  "All net, no rim!" Assistant Coach FrizzleFry chuckled to himself (a basketball reference).

Deathbecomesme was lucky Coach hadn't decided to wear his best sweats today because his 2nd-string set just got a big dose of her breakfast, and right after he'd relieved himself of his. The public toilets - his temple, his sanctuary - had become a circus. He watches in shock as DBM goes on to splatter Hobbs with a tremendous amount of internal fluid, instantly relieving Coach of his worries and sending him into a state of unmitigated euphoria.

"Haha, nice one Hobbs, you big dummy. Try not to get covered in so much vomit next time, stupid."

Already Coach had begun the process of undressing, retrieving the pair of back-up sweats he kept in a locker between a trash can overflowing with mug-bloody clothing and bandages and the corner where CancidRunt slept most nights.

The smartly dressed man wandered into the 12th Street Public Toilets. He had received a pigeon threw his window. He was needed. He thought having LHM and RHM meant he didnt have to bother anymore but apparently not. He smelt a chemical smell as he walked down the steps. The place seemed cleaner. In his mind it was better. Deathbecomesme had made her mark on the world which was worth respecting.

He pulled the pigeon out of his pocket and handed it back to Illuminatiated.

"Ohh I have another two here. I think some of them are losing their way and delivering incorrect messages"

He saw Hobbs covered in vomit. 

"Well Hobbs you are looking better than ever, it suits you. I got some JFmast branded kit here for you if you want it, he tapped the bag he held"

He walked over to DBM. 

"Im glad to see you came to visit this place. Its hollowed ground here in Detroit, so just be careful". 

He smiled.  

"I know its your birthday coming up and since you said in your message you needed new clothes. So I thought I would get my LHW something really special. So here you go"

He pulled out the bag from behind his back and presented it to DBM. 

"Its some premium JFmast merchandise. I know you never had your own since you were never a member but I thought you should have some and represent Detroit best you can. So go ahead and get changed"

DBM takes the bad with disgust in her green eyes. She walks to the nearest stall and gets change. DBM reappears in the finest JFmast leisure suit. 

"Just wonderful, Now you look like a member of Detroit"

Full of detriots meat, couldn't take another bite, Bob makes his way out of an eatery. Something stirrs inside of his stomach, something that makes him walk funny and gas seemingly releasing gentle amounts of pressure. Knowing he wont make it far, Bob see's an odd toiletry, seemingly 'Open for business', having no other option and hearing good things from the local families, Bob makes his way on the outside of the porta potty, seemingly growling to himself of the smell, wondering if this is how people get ring-worm. 

Bravery isn't not being scared, it's being scared and doing it anyway, and Bob was to face his fears, especially at a dire circumstance as this one - he feels the bowel movement head further down the canal. Holding his Stomach, Bob invites himself in - the smell from the outside doesn't compare, yet when times calls. Bob turns into a cubecal, opening and shutting himself inside quick, turning around towards the toilet - he see's a third roll of toilet paper, he uses most of it to cover the eat he's about to sit on - as his shoes stick to the floor, he carefully pulls down his sweat pants, trying not to underlap them under his shoes - or even graze the floor in general. His worst moment becomes his best as the sinking feeling becomes a relief, as if the last five seconds of oxygen releases the chemical in his brain to tell him that his ready to give up. 

A full solid movement later, Bob's hair in a wild fashion, as if he just made love to the toilet - wipes it back in a slick fashion - reaching for a cigarette. 

Hobbs eyes snapped open. He was laying on his back staring at the ceiling of an unusual place. In the background was all manner of noise and screams. How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was boarding a plane from Sydney, Australia heading to LAX airport for some essential business. How was he in Detroit? His mind flashed back to the flight where he remembered some severe turbulence, lots of screaming and then nothing but noise and a fade to black......

........was he LOST?

There were scratches on his face from the plane and a smell of burning rubber. He was surrounded by what looked like bamboo fields, but could easily have been pipes? His suit had become ill fitting in whatever had happened and he stood up and made his way to what seemed like a natural opening.

There he was met by complete and utter disaster and devastation. More screaming. The sound of what COULD have been a plane engine about to EXPLODE. He could hear someone in the background futilely screaming for Walt whoever that was.

Someone near by exploded and Hobbs was covered in blood. Hobbs realised the screaming was coming from inside himself.

He passed out again.

When he awoke he realised he was in the Detroit Public Bathrooms. The blood was vomit. The plane engine was the sound of a hand dryer. Walt? Walt was just someone's giant poo that they'd done. The screaming was all him though.

"Fuck you, and fuck you, and especially fuck you" he said at the Detroit athletes covered here.

He had to escape. He had to get away from the Island toilets.

As Coach entered his beloved toilets, he tossed the majority of an unread newspaper into the trash, making sure to tuck only the sports section under his arm. He tipped his visor to the various occupants hanging around and the queue formed up outside the glory hole, before making his way to his favorite stall in the corner and locking the door behind him. As was his custom, he removed his jacket, his shirt, and then his pants and his underwear, and hung them on the pegs he had installed on the side wall. Now nude besides his socks and shoes, he seated himself and opened up the sports section for an update of the latest scores. Reaching over from his seat, he lit the sandalwood candle perched on the small shelf to the side of his clothing pegs. This was truly his sanctuary. It was now time to poo. 

Comin' in off a long train hopped ride, iSup had found himself wandering the Detroit streets on some sort of business. Sal told him to go, so he went. iSup just knew he had to visit the morgue and maybe wander around a bit. But he could handle the situation with the morgue on his own time, kin of kin speak and the business of kinfolk had spoken to iSup. A random alley with a random shadow of a light pole pointed left into the alley. iSup's left eyebrow twitched upwards. He walked past the pole's shadow and spun on his right heel. Turnin' into the alleyway.

A mini gang of children approached as he entered the alley. One of them opened his coat to reveal watches hanging from the inside. iSup's mouth motioned as if he was whistlin'. He pointed at the watches, How much for one of them's? He asked the child with the swangin' watches. The opened jacket's head turned to one of them picking his nose. The nosepicker exchanged a glance with iSup, his eyes widened a bit as iSup observed the kids behavior. The nosepicker suddenly pretended to eat the booger that was caught in his fingernail, as if he was motionin' to do something. 

iSup and the nosepicker both had the urge to spit, at the same exact time. An awkward exchange of glances was had after the exchange of snot.

The opened jacket kid still held the jacket open, motionin' with his open hand. On the house, the kid said. iSup sauntered up to the kid and selected a shiny gold one, with an anchor sketched into the top. The craftsmanship was divine, and iSup began to wonder who had made the watch in the first place. He raised the watch in his left hand, and began to meander through the alley. He had spotted two idiots at the end of the alley that were talkin' reckless to strangers passing by. Before he stole their wallets, iSup turned to the left wall spinnin' off of his right heel. He relieved himself and proceeded to go about his business.

Void was on another excursion into the uncultured streets of Detroit. Sure Detroit was a fantastic place if you liked to dribble a ball but if you didn't then one could expect to get heckled at in the streets by the denizens of Mug City and to have a miserable time in general.

The recent developments however were even more worrying. The 12th street public toilets had been known as a safety hazard for a long time (a public service announcement had gone out to all Las Vegasians to avoid the place like the plague) but it seemed to be getting worse over time. As of recent the Detroit skyline had become visibly polluted because of the toxic fumes emerging from the place (it was like a thick green smog) and an alarming number of rats were spotted roaming all over the 12th Street.

Void decided enough was enough and resolved to do something about it. He had a general policy of staying out of other people's business but couldn't let this national environmental disaster continue unhindered. Void also had his reputation of Peace Pervert™ to keep up however, so he came disguised as Hobbs instead to shift the potential blame for this to him (Void had received some disguising tips from officer Hibbs earlier that day to aid him in this).

The disguised Void had a backpack filled with soap bars, had his henchmen carry in a large slingshot with additional bags of soap bars and got to work. It took some initial missing shots to find the right trajectory but soon enough the soap bars were being flung into the 12th Street Public Toilets with remarkable accuracy. The slingshot's rubber could be heard creaking as the soap bars got pulled back and then... Swoosh!

Dirty needed to take a shit. He'd been up drinking all night.... again, and felt a familiar rumble in his bowels. He looks around and spots The infamous 12th st public bathrooms. He was told by his friend BBB that this was an iconic spot for gangsters to visit in DT. He walked through the door and walked down the stairs, already the smell was pungent. The odor of poo, blood and vomit pervaded the air. 'This was a place filled with depravity'  he thought. 'my kind of place.' Dirty looked around admiring the filth. He spied an empty stall and sat down. 'This is going to be nasty' he thought, sounds coming from his stomach suggested. 

All of a sudden a gigantic stream of watery excrement shoot out of his sphincter. It was sublime, he felt immediately relieved. He looked over at the wall of the stall and recognized some faded writing that looked to be in the hand of Hobbs. It was illegible and smelled of stale piss. Dirty took out his felt tipped pen and drew a horse with flames on it and a stick figure next to it with a gas can in one hand and a lit match in the other. He wrote above the stick figure "Hobbs". Dirty laughed hysterically and then drew another stick figure standing behind a pole with a word bubble coming from his mouth saying "Allegedly!" and penned "FrankCastiglias" name above it. Pleased with his artwork, he exited the toilet in the tradition of DT without wiping his ass. Then he left. 

A kerfluffle of a tough'ol' patrol squadron of GrandmazNoOneWantsToFluffFerr chasin' yee old wickettwriterd. He dasterdly and haphazardly swerves his car into the side of the wall. The drunken'phar'syded'eye'sydedOhEezOwn'Ead. The whizzbang skrtskrts the now beaten up jalopy parallel to the wall, getting out using his starboard cannon to cover his retreat. The sound of 6 cracks of a Texan's freedumb from a chrome 1911 extendo magg'raggta'tapped out. 1 dead old smelly lady, 5 in the chest and one whizzed above the rest.

The old lady in the driver seat tried to duck out, the car rolling as he hit the ground. He landed flat on his dumbass face, stuttering before getting his own starboard cannon aimed. WickerKickerrTheSunBonnet whippzzeez gunnzz. Wha-CHH'zz about 12 whiz bangersinnamash into the frames of 3 more oppositesyders. CoppaPelletBeezz sting the now dead 1. Blood flys and spreads. He falls out of the chair into the middle console, the driver took a shot to the neck, blood loss collected on the window after spurting out with the force of a geyser. Promptly pulling over to relieve himself once again, after relieving the pain of lesser specimen criminals after his pot oh GoldenCharmzz.

He takes a shit in the open mouth of the dimmwitdatjussagotklippt.

The sound of a Texan's freedumb from a chrome 1911 extendin it's magazine rangta'fuckk out. One lady knocked the cock off a a guy, 5 bullets in the chest followed after and 1 dead Durden. Ah fuck, y'ee ol' bah'dum'duhduh'dum'dumm a'ginn? Ah shit oh fuck oh piss, they mussa Myst'Syded crossedTerdzz at war with worldzz. 

WotYerrS'posen TheMidWesterned MannerzzManorzz do about dat'enn? WHY?!?! I oughta' fookin'shtrangle'eem. 

The LoneStar isoTrope of his troupe flew the coupe and kicked a dumb KUNT in the nuts, 40hClock to eez'dock the bodyguard lass oh'dee'scenarioh tootled'err'own horn. The Horned Toad Purple Frawg'Jumpz't'ee'fook off his paddLoch't Dockin'mechanism. BobbyOfBoxxHeads takes over. A total and utter disaster occurs. He made the bowin' man a bowlin' pin, corkscrewing him with a portersydedkuntofakannon. Tied bow of the Bow plants face first, but not before takin' 2 more perfect shots from the back of the slackedTopp. Sleuth oh dee South clicks tongue in eez'mouff. 

Suddenly some dumb MexiKUNT claims terd'bee zumm humdingin danglin' dandys. But dat Sleuth flew the coop ard'readyy'ee'deed'ee'deed. Witchin'Whiches'WhichOverJasonsDeliWithFirehouseSub. Sound of mee'maws letter.

Derdlyst of Derdzz emerges. A sanger'enna'songwriter'd. Of course it's not Marla, its just some hawt one that's gotta eat the mechanical claw of logic orchestrated through the portsyded artsyde hand that was jacked of it's gifts FowlSleay told2emm. 

She takes one entire drumm of a 21. The bodyguard'in'yuh'KUNT fluff't'err'wang'a'rooneyzz uh'p'terdzz'KUNTz. 

Crass tones overtake the drumOHbummz. TheAdicts play a tune of futuristic lingo to hawt to handle, so the doodler diddles with his fiddle fingers and fookin'rollz'uh'spliff'ee'does ee'dee SteezeySleazyySleuth.

Ray was happily running around Detroit. Suddenly he had to take a dump. He had heard about a public bathroom located on 12th street. Quickly he found his way. The stench of shit and urine hit him before he entered the bathroom. Ray can live with that one. What he found peculiar was the extremely bright lights. 

He began pushing open the stall doors looking for the one that was supplied with toilet paper. Several doors later he finds the supply he needs to wipe his ass. But a man was slumped over the toilet covered in blood. He thinks to himself, this has got to be one of the hoodlums hitting the streets of Detroit.

"RIP man but you got to move over."

Killshot had a large plate of chill for his lunch. as he was walking down the street his eyes widen and his stomach churned, "oh dear god!" he thought to himself. allf of a sudden he had ot make a dash a sharp pain in his backside, he sees thehe  public toilets "my god ive heard stories..but *grimaces* i gotta go!"

He unds down the stairs almost leaping down the last flight he heads in and kicks open the first stall and drops his pants. what felt like an absolute eternity he was pushing and needing ot do deep breathing. Killshot gribps the side of the bowl bears down and pushes with all his might. his sphincter closes and he slumps back on the toilet panting heavily

The foul odour hit him as he wiped and he jumped up to throw the paper in when he stopped. "OH MY GOD! did he give birth to a brown annaconda? it was curled 4 times in the bowl staring back at him. for a split second he admired his creation then he became disgusted and thrrew the tiolet paper in.

Now was the moment of truth is this behemoth poo going to be flushed in the abyss only to remain a disturbing memory or is it going to stay to greet the next victim that stumbles in here for relief?

He pushed on the handle and ...this was a no go. he stepped back quicky as hte water rose up like a fountain pouring and splashing on to the floor creating a flowing pool.

Killshot fixed himself and went up the stairs whistling a random tune hoeping ot forget this experience

Victoria had heard stories that passed on from generation to generation of the fabled location of the 12th Street Detroit public toilets. The stories foretold of a magical place where you could release your worries and stresses, how a man could really ponder his life and what their dreams and desires for life were. A location where your troubles would melt away and the weight of the world would lift off your shoulders, and out of your bowels. 

The other people who mentioned the bathrooms would speak of horrifying sounds, people and sounds. The grunts and groans of struggles, like men dying in war. The smell was known to linger and travel the distance in the streets of Detroit, proudly proclaiming to the world that the Champions of Detroit did not have a very healthy diet and absolutely needed more fiber. 

Both tales intrigued Victoria, which was why while she was hanging out in Detroit waiting for her flight she wanted to satisfy that curiosity and see which tall-tale-teller was correct in their perceptions of the bathrooms. With Detroit now being a ghost city, Victoria wondered if the shits of those who have left this world would linger. Ghosts of the colon deposits from those who had perished. Weirdly, Victoria was excited for the prospect of a haunted toilet. Paranomal Poo wasn't something she had considered before, but now it was practically all she could think about.  

12th Street had been permanently quarantined by the administrative government. The 12th Street Toilets were all that remained of the district, with the remainder lost with the deaths of Headcoach, Mike Tyson, Grin-22, BBB and the rest of the gang. Names that were inscribed in blood, faeces and broken dreams all across the bathroom. Hobbs bowed his head in remembrance of a fallen city, one that helped Hobbs be the man he was today.

The toilets were filthy as God intended, despite the best efforts of many over the years including Godfather Chairmen twigs. Shit smeared the walls, and the laundry hamper was overflowing. Hobbs half expected to find a corpse or two in the bathroom but it looked like all had been moved for burial by now.

Hobbs thought about blasting out a dookie for old time sake, but instead decided to raise an imaginary glass to the place. It was now true relic, and the final reminder of all that JFMAST was.