The Devil's Jet-Black Sputum

The shower in the front bathroom – the shower I bathe in – is currently blasting water at the hottest temperature possible and no one is in it.  This is happening because:

  1. It hasn’t been draining properly for the last week or so and I believe I’ve fixed it but I’d like to make sure.
  2. What I pulled out of the drain in no way, shape, or form came from this plane of existence and there is neither water hot enough nor soap strong enough to clean it’s residue off the shower floor.

I could have called a plumber but we’ve done that enough in my opinion and…sorry, the Purell is dry, have to apply another coat.  And we’re back.  Anyway, there comes a point in a man’s life where he has to say fuck it and start taking care of shit himself and dammit, I’m at that point.  Also, I just spent $16,000 on lawyers and their shenanigans last week and I’m really not in the mood to spend another $200 on a plumber.  But I’m not writing this to bitch about not having money again and I’m not writing it to talk about responsibility and the noble pursuit of Doing It Yourself.  No, I’m sitting here at my desk to share with you, the people I love, my horrifying discovery from twenty minutes ago:

Satan jacks off in my shower.

“Oh, Tim,” you’re saying, “you’re just waxing eloquent macabre again.”

No, no I’m fucking not.  It was not…

[Purell Break]

Sorry.  It was not hair that I retrieved from my shower drain, fibrous though it was.  It couldn’t possibly have been hair.  It was black.  Not black like some people’s hair can get.  Jet fucking black.  Like used motor oil only not as clean.

I pulled the drain snake up out of the drain and discovered a sizable bulb at the end of it.  The bulb looked like a smaller version of a bulb like you’d see on a turkey baster.  And it had a tail.  And that tail hit the shower floor and left a trace of jet-black residue behind it.  If I’d wanted to, I could have written my name on the floor of my shower.  I chose not to because, ultimately, there isn’t much question as to whom the shower belongs.

[Purell Break]

Also, I was too busy screaming like a little girl, to write legibly.

There was a small amount of human hair on the snake but mostly it was that nasty bulb of what could only be Old Scratch’s jizz.  I gingerly carried the drain snake outside and turned on the water spigot by the garage.  I held my breath and tucked my testicles up inside my body (or, possibly, they just did that on their own) and held the stygian ovum bulb under the water…and then I put my fingers on it and began trying to remove it.  Oh sure, it felt like hair a bit, but only if it had been soaking in oil for the last century while sitting under a heat lamp.  And I swear to God, it wouldn’t come off.  It…

[Purell Break]

Sorry, it would not fucking come off.  After a few minutes I had to give up and go get some pliers to help me do the job.  It was only with pliers, both hands, and about five minutes of impossibly hard work that I managed to get the snake back to a more-or-less clean state.  It then occurred to me that the fucking thing only cost $17 and I could have just set it on fire and not have spent the better part of ten minutes fondling Lucifer’s spunk.

There’s no reason in the world for me to have shared any of that with you.  But, I’m kind of a dick that way.  And in my defense, I’d like to point out that I didn’t take a picture to show you what I’d retrieved from the entrance to Hell.  And I’m the guy who took a picture of his nasty ass toenail when it fell off (though that was mostly for Melinda because, like all the best people in life, Melinda’s off her nut).

I just checked the shower and it’s draining beautifully again.  Because, goddammit, a happy ending is necessary after all that.

[Purell Break]

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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