A Good Plunger is Hard to Find

by Janine Kamouh

“Somethin ain’t right here,” said Carl, standing over the empty hole in the bathroom.

“Uh, Ma’am, ya said ya needed a plumber, but I got some news for ya… Ya don’t got no toilet.”

“Ma’am?” Carl yelled, a bit louder than before. He stepped backward out of the bathroom, peeking into the hall.

The house was silent. Carl looked around, perplexed, adjusting his pants that had begun to plumber sag.

“Hey, ma’am…. now plumbin ain’t not jokin matter to me, ma’am.”

A booming thud sounded in the room at the end of the hall. The door was closed, but Carl thought he could hear the faint sound of yelling.

“I shoulda finished high school,” he muttered, walking toward the door.

He twisted the knob, slowly pushing the door open. There, in the middle of the room was the toilet—a piece of cloth from the late Mrs. Winslow’s dress hanging out of its open porcelain mouth.

“You’re poo late!” The toilet shouted in a deep, bellowing tone. “Get it? Poo late!” The toilet laughed a low, menacing toilet laugh, and leapt at Carl, devouring him whole.

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