The water vanished. The toilet gave a satisfied gurgle . And somewhere in the sewer line, Gus’s creation began its long, slow journey toward the ocean.
Mark boiled a pot of water. He stood on the toilet seat (for leverage, he told himself) and poured the steaming water into the bowl like a priest performing an exorcism.
“Ah,” the plumber replied. “The high-volume artist. Okay. Don’t flush again. Don’t add soap. Soap makes the poop-snake angry. You need a toilet auger. But since it’s 2 AM, try this: boiling water. Slowly. From waist height. The thermal shock sometimes breaks the… sculpture.” dog poop clogged toilet
The floor became a Jackson Pollock of seasonal gourds and regret.
“No,” Mark whispered. “Don’t you dare.” The water vanished
“No,” Mark lied, hugging the plunger like a trophy. “I just saved us a thousand dollars.”
He pressed the handle.
Mark collapsed onto the bathroom floor, victorious. Gus padded over and licked his face, his breath still faintly smelling of cinnamon.