the porta potty plot (part 1)

Tinfoil underpants and the #2 protocol

I heard the rumble.

The rumble turned into a roar and then a rattle and a clatter. The package truck pulled past the porta potty. Though my arse was nearly frozen to the seat, I knew that I had other issues.

Ricky was teaching me a lesson.

I wiped my arse, dropping the shit ticket onto the frozen blue goo covering up the fetid stalagmite that I left behind. Pulling up my pants, I opened the door to see the arse end of the package truck rumble away down the dirt road from the potato chip factory we had just delivered to.

It seems that Ricky wanted to make me run.

So, what did I do dear reader?

What would you do?

Me?

I ran.

Did you ACTUALLY just use that thing?

Ricky was livid. His eyes were wide and wild and his gaze was wheeling as though attempting to make sure people weren’t watching.

I had to have a shit boss.

It was true.

Next time. Shit in a cup.

Ricky slammed the truck into gear and we roared off as he bit his lip while pensively muttering under his breath.

A bead of sweat began to form on his brow.

And me?

I began to regret that delicious chilli I had for lunch.

I knew that the afternoon was going to be spectacular in its stupidity.

I had breached a fairly sacred protocol with Ricky.

And the afternoon would be spent paying the price for my transgression.

What do you imagine dear reader prompted such a volatile reaction from my driver Ricky?

Well,

Tune in tomorrow to find out the secrets that are held by a power mad state hell bent on enslaving humanity.

No, this isn’t a tale of chemtrails or a flat earth.

Tomorrow dear reader, I will reveal to you all the most diabolical conspiracy known to humanity: The porta potty plot.

So, get ready. Forge yourself some tin foil panties and kick back while I take you on a journey through the depraved reaches of the mind of Rick.

Until then dear reader?

Watch where you shit.