TFS had been out having some fun. Not one but two throats had been slit and she was in a wonderful mood. Whistling to herself while skipping cheerfully home in the dark she caught that eerie feeling. Like something bad was about to happen. Walking slower she look around and then caught it. She was walking past the 12th street public bathrooms. This place had a rep of being weird as fuck and nothing TFS felt like experiencing at this point in time. What if she bumped in to that nobody TonyMcCarrol who had a reputation of exercising his mouth at this very spot. Or UglyInbredGeorge who surely was peeping through the window while Tony was exercising. Or TheFatController being stuck i. The entrance trying to squeeze his way in to relieve himself. But worst of all… She was not at all even close to wanting to bump into MongolMo. The weirdo of weirdos that was sure to hang around weird places like this.

TFS pulled up her coat in order to try and conceal herself and started jogging hoping no one of these nightmares would come true.

hours earlier, SlimRagnarok, the most handsome man to ever set foot into Detroit stepped into the infamous 12th street toilets. He had experienced a long night to swan killing in Shitcago and made the mistake of stealing a piece of their deep dish pizza as he boarded a plan to fly home. Within moments, he knew a mistake had been made.

after kicking down mutiple doors, each occupied with hookers and lazy wise guys, he found an empty stall. The 3rd stall to be exact. It as pristine as could be, a shiny throne ready to be defiled. As he was set to purge himself of the vile pizza, he slipped, cracked his head and passed out. Poor Slim was in trouble. 

Payday George stood proudly next to the newest addition to the 12th Street Public Toilets, a extension of flimsy wood and tin panels half-leaning against the side of the building, propped up around a small hole in the ground and a garden trowel. A small hand-painted sign read, "George's Stall". It was the kind of magical place where your imagination could run wild.

Who's George? Why is his stall outside? Why does he have his own special stall? What's in it? Could it be the doorway to some secret, ancient power source, softly pulsing beneath the earth's crust? Or was it simply a place for George to store his poo? 

A long, unnatural rhythm of loud coughing could be heard from inside, like a poor attempt to disguise the sounds of a particularly troublesome movement. 

During his frequent trips to Detroit to pick up cash from his Detroit earners, Tom always liked to stroll down 12th Street to laugh at the vagrants and ladyboy whores. The 12th Street Public toilets were always a source of amusement. Tom would see all types, from local working class to state politicians go in and out of its doors. This time, however, there appeared to be renovations underway...

"Hmmm...George's Stall? I wonder who George is? He must be a very important person to get his own stall. I thought I saw the Mayor of Detroit go in there one time, and he doesn't have his own stall! Whoever this 'George' is must be a real high roller. A man to be revered. One who doesn't step aside, but makes you step aside. That's the type of person who should be working in Chicago, with the real gangsters and hustlers."

Tom paused with his thoughts for a moment, then continued walking. He was far too classy and dignified to relieve himself in or near such a toxic cesspool. Just like George, he thought. A man with his own stall, exalted above the common folk...

Simon was disappointed to see TomJoad walking down near the 12th Street Public Toilets, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the enormous dog(?) turd right in front of him. Simon saw the befoulment and thought about warning Tom. Then he remembered he hated Tom, so said nothing. Tom, stupid look still set upon his stupid face, put his almost embarrassingly small shoe (like size 5 or 6 max, kitchen feet) right into the muck, sliding forwards, bingo-wing arms flapping madly as he tried to keep his balance.

"Eat shit, Joad!" Simon called without breaking stride, leaving the Don, stranded in maybe human faeces and probably crying, in his wake. 

Stepping gracefully over the pile of poo with the elegance of a swan, Tom easily navigated the minefields which were the 12th Street sidewalks. It was almost unnatural for a man of such massive build and strength to have the agility of a cat and the speed of a gazelle. Tom was born to play mafia basketball, but the courts were all boarded up and the teams disbanded. 

Tom saw one of his Detroit earners, Simon, yelling drunken obscenities at a pigeon. This one was a good earner, but suffered from incontinence. It was likely Simon's poo that Tom had just hurdled. The poor slob yelled angrily at the pigeon as foul, brown sludge crept its way down his leg. When it reached his shoe, Simon would scoop it up with his left hand while shaking his fist at the pigeon with his right. It was almost too much to watch. Tom considered releasing Simon from his employ. Was it worth it? How much did the man really earn for Tom? Tom took a look inside his ledger...

Tom furrowed his brow. It was meager earnings by Chicago standards, but for one of his Detroit earners, it was better than average. Only SlimRagnarok had better earnings for Tom. But this problem with Simon and his faeces had to be resolved before Tom would even consider allowing Simon into a Chicago HQ one day. Tom shrugged and continued his stroll down 12th Street. He looked over his shoulder one more time at Simon, still berating the pigeon, still with a handful of poo...

Shane stands in front of the the infamous "George's Stall".

He didn't hate the guy but events had already taken place. Shane grabbed a cold forty out of his briefcase and took a swig. He poured the rest in the toilet and flushed, the water flowing in a swirly motion. One the water settled, he grabbed a stack of cash, amounting to $150,000 and laid it on the toilet. He walked out and closed the door.

Coach sat in his hideout beneath the toilets absolutely fucking wailing on an electric organ, stopping every once in a while to hold his open hand up to the half-mask on his face dramatically, as he continued to riff with the other. His custom-made tracksuit cape swirled with the gusts of air ventilation coming through the crawl space, as he made flamboyant gestures that indicated - to anyone in the know - how he pined for his wife, who by a cruel twist of fate was the only person on earth who didn't seem to be able to see or hear him. A small portrait of them somewhat near each other leaned against a wall, surrounded by lit candles and a blouse he'd stolen while at her house the other day. As he took it, it almost felt like she'd said, 'Wait no, not that one, that's my favorite one', before he vanished into the ether and ventured back to his sanctum, but he knew that was impossible. 

Above, he could hear the sounds of the glory hole cover being slid and latched into open position. 

It had been some times since SlimRagnarok, Underboss of Detroit, slayer of swans, proveyour of prostitutes, and all around handsome gentlemen had visted the infamous 12th Street Public Toilets. The remains of dead swans and rotteded flowers decorated the entrance, honoring the death of Ted, forgotten heir of the Swan Empire. God rest Ted's soul he thought to himself.

Slim knew if he opened the door and stepped inside, he'd wind up partaking in things that would leave him used, abused, and left for dead for a few more days. He stepped away from the entrance and headed to the 12th Street Public Library. No one in Detroit could read, but at least there where comfy chairs to sit on

Spend some quality time in the 12th Street stalls

It wasn't a suggestion, but a direct order from SimonTheSwanHunter. Chairman Godfather of Detroit. Hunter of swans, King Hater of places known as Chicago and New York. When Simon spoke, Slim knew it was best to listen. His tone didnt allow for arguing. After handling things down at his office, Slim headed to the infamous 12th Street Public Toilets. A place so vile and raunchy, TonyTheTailor visted it three times a week. 

Standing guard at the front door was BillyNoMates. With a look of amusement on his face, he opened the door and said stall 12 was waiting for Slim. Why not stall 9? The infamous stall where all Made Men took the plunge. Stall 6 was still closed off, Ted's remains still lined the walls and toilet. Slim stopped at stall 12 and stared at it for a few moments. Was stepping in here going to change his life forever, or was this just another sick trick from Simon?

Tom shuffled along 12th Street looking for a place to pop a squat. The streets seemed different, eerily quiet. Simon was gone and the swans began to move in. Parents were complaining about their children being assaulted by the feathered villains...

A quick flash of white feathers caught Tom's attention from the corner of his eye, as the figure ducked into an alleyway. They were learning to use stealth to camouflage their attacks. It occurred to Tom that this never would have happened on Simon's watch.

"I better pick up my pace. This neighborhood is getting rough."

Tom moved quicker until he reached the 12th Street Public Toilets. He hustled inside and ducked into his favorite stall, two away from the glory hole. Tom wasn't a prude, it's just that these Detroit scumbags rarely cleaned up after themselves...

"Not the way we do it in Chicago", Tom mused. It seemed like forever since he was home in the clean streets of Chicago, where the swans were friendly and would even give you directions if you asked politely. And, if in the course of the day's events, you found yourself in front of a glory hole, you could be sure that there was no jizz making the cover stick open or shut and everything was sprayed with disinfectant in between each use...

Tom waited to hear the organ music while he relieved his bowels. It always helped, for some reason, but today it was quiet. As the final plop went into the bowl, a tumbleweed rolled past the wide-open stall door. He could almost hear a ghostly voice coming from the sewer, longing for his wife. Surely it was just his imagination...

SlimRagnarok walked up to the infamous 12th Street Public Toilets, mind filled with many memories. Most of them where nightmares really, but they where apart of his life, so he had to deal with them. He had half a mind to burn the place to the ground, destroy what once was, but he decided against it. The 12th Street Public Toilets where a landmark of Detroit and needed to be cared for more carefully. It was time to bring this run down piss box back to life. Soon his minions would be sent forth to clean this place up and make it presentable once agian.

Upon receiving word from the high hills of their Don's estate Godfather-Chairman walked down the streets in search of the 12th Street Public Toilets. As the name may suggest they were able to locate it on 12th Street. Being somewhat new to the city it took Godfather-Chairman a moment to locate 12th Street but as they did it allowed them an opportunity to better learn the city. They scouted locations to dump a body, or attempt a quick pickpocket after performing a quick petty crime on the way. Turning back to their task the 12th Street Public Toilets eventually stood before them. As they pushed their way in for the first time Godfather-Chairman saw what all the talk was about.

If ever a single location could be described as a shithole it would be here.

Wanting to align themself with their family and city Godfather-Chairman walked to an empty defecation receptacle, noticed the warmth it held, and began the process of learning the ways of Detroit. 

While relaxing for a moment they noticed the ambiance provided by music and idle chatter. 

"Certainly not where I thought I would be sitting today, however things could always be worse."

Why are there so many stray cats running around the 12th Street Public Toilets?

Slim was a bit flabbergasted by so many cats hanging around the area. He had lost count at 11 different cats just lounging on the stairs leading into the building. Was Matt in the stalls? 

Maybe this is why BigTed was leaving the place with a huge smile on his face just yesterday afternoon. He was able to pet a kitty for the very first time. Congrats to him I suppose!

A stray cat wondered near him and hissed. Clearly this cat belonged to TonyTheTailor. Matt had lost control of his strays and they where defecting to Philly. A problem was getting out of hand here pretty quickly

If I don't put a stop to this, Detroit will become known as a cat city. We just can't have that happening.

"So these are the Twelfth Street Toilets. Those street kids sure did a number on this place." I wisper to myself as I scan the walls covered in shit and blood. I, Enricho, did not learn of this public toilet's past in the time it took me to find this place. Finding a window to an alcove where a register sits.

Again whispering to myself, "Now what could that be for?" As I scan the small area it seems you have to climb through the window to enter. "I, Enricho, have never had the need to visit a public toilet. Is there a fee to piss?" I continued to myself, raising my voice slightly as I announce my name. I again continue to scan the area of these toilets, noticing holes around waste level on an average man. "This is quite a strange place." I say as I step out to clear my senses of what I've just seen and smelt. "I'll hire some local boys to clean the place up. There's always some scamps trying to make a buck to bring back for their mothers." I light a cigarette thinking it'll help clear the scent of rotting shit from my nose and walk on to find some poor saps the clean the place up.

A shadowy presence had taken over Detroit...

There was talk of cleaning the 12th Street Public Toilets. "New Management" had come to town and they wanted to do things differently. The locals were not pleased. They knew that making their public toilets more appetizing for tourists would be the beginning of the end of all the things they held dear...

A grassroots effort sprung up and word got out to some of the 12th Street zealots. Hits were arranged. Psychological warfare was fair game. The scourge needed to be wiped from Detroit however it could be done...

Finally, they were gone. The toilets were once again free to wallow in filth, just as God intended.

Enricho started to wake up. "is that... Who? ... He's been... There's..." Enricho heard bits of a conversation like it was the same person talking to themselves. He felt a sharp jab into his side and manages to open an eye partially. An umbrella. Thank God. He didn't realize he only thought this as his orientation to reality is still struggling to push through.

As Enricho still lays on the floor, he starts to get a bearing of where he is. Am I.. The realization that he is on the floor of the Twelth Street Public Toilets woke him up faster than any gunshot ever could. "Oh Fuck No!" Enricho exclaimed, jumping up to his feel and scaring off the street kids who found him.

"Well that's just fucking great! I'd go to the public shower, but there's two problems: it doesn't exist AND it would be as deplorable as it is here! Maybe my apartment is still here for me." Enricho started to try and wash something off of him only to notice his usual atire has been switched to bloody and torn rags. What the fuck happened to me? Enricho started to realize he has no recollection of how much time has passed nor what happened to him. Well if my apartment is still open to me, I've a nice suit.. and a great shower. Enricho stumbles out of the door, trips and faceplants into the Detroit summer sun.

Approaching the 12th Street Public Toilets to alleviate himself, Tussy noticed EnrichoLives stumbling out and flat onto his face. This was, of course, completely normal behaviour for EnrichoLives, but nevertheless Tussy wanted to make sure his friend had at least got an explanation for this latest exhibition of absolute deplorable acts.

'Hello there matey!' he started. 'Seems you've been in the rough a bit! Managed to stay decent long enough this time?' Tussy chuckled in the knowledge he'd be more likely to start a long distance relationship with the pope than Enricho had at staying sober and out of trouble. As he helped the poor man to his feet Tussy noticed the smell coming off him. He clearly mistook the urinal for the showers....Sadly this meant his hands would need washing prior to his own wee. Damn helping friends....