BANG!
With a bang, I opened the door. “Damn these exploding kneepads” I muttered. I’d come here for a reason, for a grave and yearning purpose. Clutched at my side I had a red FILA tote full of inflatables, cables and a length of power cord. But would I use them? I was sweating now, and a sheen of grime trickled from the hot pores on my forehead. Wrist-flick - 14:32, would there be time?
BANG!
Damn knee pads. No, the door, a suited man, short hair, violent expression. FUCK. It’s only fucking Lee MccockingQueen! God damn it. I press the bag closer to my side and shuffle up a place. Pinging neons, cleaner. ‘Sorry’ ‘Sawroight mate’ ‘Sorry’ ‘No problem’. We had spoken, but through a third party. Flea-like, what had we Donne? A verbal entwining, had we fucked on this cleaner’s M-traced back? Set grimace, stare at wall.
BANG!
‘Sorry, my knee pads…’ ‘Sawroight mate’. FULL FRONTAL. Shit.
Cubicle-door relief-flood with creak and flush - GET IN. Bastard. McQueen grips the plastics and battens his cludgy.
Splash!
Not McQueen self-pissing, toilet talk. Only two cubicles. ClickCreakSWISH. Dropping bags, clutching icy porcelain. Relief. A tangible sense of grey connectedness, wide as a glory hole, seeps through the faded panel wall. Should we commune? No, not in words. Never in words.
PFRRFT!
Yes! Fart! Man-language. In the land of Armitage Shanks and the hovering perfume-attendant, the language of aristocracy is spoken with the rectum. ‘Futttt…’.'Prrpp…’ ‘Friends forever, yes?’ ‘I just met you mate. See the game?’ ‘Pfffffffffffff’ ‘I hate football’. Sudden crashing cubicle death? NO! We speak the anus-language of the Gods, and it is too cultured and magical a language to be sullied by pathetic violence. No, we are cemented into breezeblock brethren by our chunky brown leavings.
Lee McQueen is my turd brother. We consummated our evacuatory togetherness in a dingy McDonalds basement on Oxford Street. The rest, as they say, is history…