Will frowned as he looked down at the seat, its pristine whiteness marred by several moist blotches, their golden sheen reflecting the fluorescent light.
“What. The. Fuck,” he said to himself.
Will was a creature of habit, and he'd quickly settled into a routine when he joined the Second Line. Every afternoon was the same. Lunch was twenty minutes, starting at noon, followed by a light weight session, which would leave enough time before the 2:00 defensive backs’ meeting for his afternoon BM.
Even the BM was routine. Same time, same consistency, even the same stall.
Someone had thrown a wrench in the gears, though. He couldn't use the stall like this.
Wil made his way to the security guards' office and slipped the man on duty a hundred. He pointed to the monitor showing the entrance to the restroom.
“This one,” he said. “Reverse from right now.”
The guard played the tape backwards, until a figure appeared, leaving the restroom door. It was Borkus Maximus, or BMax, the quarterback, and he had a shit eating grin on. Will knew he had three culprit.
It was no secret where BMax would be this time of day, so Will made his way to the cheerleaders’ practice. BMax was watching, pom poms in hand.
Will greeted him and BMax gave him a nod.
“BMax, listen,” Will said. “We all gotta do what we gotta do, but not on the seat, okay?”
BMax narrowed his eyes, as though in deep concentration, then just got up and left.
The next day, Will went about his business, assuming the issue was settled. He was not pleased when he saw the same golden blemish on his throne. He marched off to the cheerleader practice, again, and saw BMax there with his pom poms, again.
“Hey, maybe I was unclear yesterday,” Will said to him. “I'd really appreciate if you didn't piss on that toilet seat.”
The quarterback gave him two slow nods and a thumbs up, then returned his attention to the cheerleading.
The following afternoon, having met porcelain disappointment, yet again, Will stomped up tip Borkus, grabbed his pom poms and threw them off the bleachers.
“Stop. Fucking. Pissing. On my toilet seat, you asshole,” he said, his face ask close to the quarterback’s he could smell the Bazooka Joe gum on his breath.
Borkus looked him in the eye and said, “I'm the quarterback. I pee where I want, bitch,” and blew a raspberry.
“What. The. Fuck,” he said to himself.
Will was a creature of habit, and he'd quickly settled into a routine when he joined the Second Line. Every afternoon was the same. Lunch was twenty minutes, starting at noon, followed by a light weight session, which would leave enough time before the 2:00 defensive backs’ meeting for his afternoon BM.
Even the BM was routine. Same time, same consistency, even the same stall.
Someone had thrown a wrench in the gears, though. He couldn't use the stall like this.
Wil made his way to the security guards' office and slipped the man on duty a hundred. He pointed to the monitor showing the entrance to the restroom.
“This one,” he said. “Reverse from right now.”
The guard played the tape backwards, until a figure appeared, leaving the restroom door. It was Borkus Maximus, or BMax, the quarterback, and he had a shit eating grin on. Will knew he had three culprit.
It was no secret where BMax would be this time of day, so Will made his way to the cheerleaders’ practice. BMax was watching, pom poms in hand.
Will greeted him and BMax gave him a nod.
“BMax, listen,” Will said. “We all gotta do what we gotta do, but not on the seat, okay?”
BMax narrowed his eyes, as though in deep concentration, then just got up and left.
The next day, Will went about his business, assuming the issue was settled. He was not pleased when he saw the same golden blemish on his throne. He marched off to the cheerleader practice, again, and saw BMax there with his pom poms, again.
“Hey, maybe I was unclear yesterday,” Will said to him. “I'd really appreciate if you didn't piss on that toilet seat.”
The quarterback gave him two slow nods and a thumbs up, then returned his attention to the cheerleading.
The following afternoon, having met porcelain disappointment, yet again, Will stomped up tip Borkus, grabbed his pom poms and threw them off the bleachers.
“Stop. Fucking. Pissing. On my toilet seat, you asshole,” he said, his face ask close to the quarterback’s he could smell the Bazooka Joe gum on his breath.
Borkus looked him in the eye and said, “I'm the quarterback. I pee where I want, bitch,” and blew a raspberry.
![[Image: TRwiHZ1.png]](https://i.imgur.com/TRwiHZ1.png)
