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Peter Petrakov's Magical Bathroom Adventure

Updated on January 22, 2013



“” Peter whined to himself as he rushed into the enclosed restroom stall. He pulled his pants down and sat onto the abnormally cold stainless steel toilet seat. Oh why did he have to eat all that spicy fried food at the state fair? Somehow his sensitive stomach managed all that terrible food, and made it all the way back to the Arapaho DART station before his bowels suddenly decided they wanted to evacuate.

“Come on...” Peter grunted, as he prepared for the fury. He abused the digestive gods, and now the day of reckoning was upon him. The entire room was made of stainless steel with plastic accents, and an odor of disinfectant hung in the air. While a small single-room lavatory at a public transit stop in Richardson wasn’t a very sanitary place to do his business, Peter knew that this was pristine compared to the sometimes-free public restrooms he saw in the Vladivostok slums where he grew up.

“AAAARRGH!” Peter roared as he did something quite reprehensible to the stainless steel toilet bowl. I won’t go into detail about the evacuation, as there are some things that are better left unknown, and you might be eating lunch right now at one of those quaint little sidewalk cafes that are scattered all over whatever metro area you happen to be in, and it would terribly ruin the meals of the people around you if you were to suddenly toss your cookies all over the table. However, considering this is a story about a man in a public lavatory then you probably shouldn’t read this while eating. Anyway, back to the story.

“Bozhe moy,” Peter muttered as he sighed with relief. The first part was over. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, and tried to calm his furiously pounding heart. With each beat of his heart he felt the arteries in his arms, legs, and head swell. Slowly and gradually the excitement died down. Peter leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He was feeling rather worn out from that whole ordeal, and buried his face in his palms. He was very tired, and while he was pretty sure he was finished evacuating he wasn’t ready to tackle the whole ordeal of wiping his nether regions. Suddenly there was a rapping on the door.

“Sir, you been in there for a while! Are you okay in there?” the voice of a friendly DART transit center attendant shouted through the steel door.

“F-FINE!” Peter shouted back.

“Sir, you can’t sleep in there!”

“I am not sleeping! I am pooping!” Peter shouted again hoping to appease the transit employee. Peter buried his face in his palms again, and for a brief moment he was at peace despite his unpleasant surroundings.

“...hello...” a faint voice spoke out.

Peter paid no attention to the disturbance.

“...hello...Peter,” the voice said a little louder in an high English accent.

Maybe it was calling another Peter.

“Peter Petrakov! Arise from your bowl!” the voice commanded. Peter reacted to the authoritative voice and promptly jumped to his feet. He was never in the Russian military, but he was well trained from constantly having to deal with abusive police officers back in Mother Russia.

“Look alive, gentlemen!” the high nasal voice spoke the Queen’s English. Peter turned around to see a trio of tiny soldiers on his toilet bowl. Their uniforms were red and white, reminiscent of Victorian-era British soldiers. They saluted Peter as they stood diligently and perfectly erect.

“Wh-what?” Peter was dumbfounded. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe the excessive amount of fried foods he ate were laced with hallucinogenic drugs.
The three soldiers dropped their arms to their sides.

“Peter Petrakov!” the leader spoke.

“How do you know my name?” Peter whimpered.

“We know many things, Peter. We learn much in the annals of history, recorded in the lavatories of the people. I am Sir John Harington and, we are the Guardians of the Bowl. Wherever evil lurks in the sewers of mankind we shall hunt it down and destroy it in service to our Lord.”

“You fight bad guys in toilet?” Peter asked.

“Yes, Peter!” the proud patron of poo proclaimed. “We are currently fighting a brutal war with our sworn enemy, the dreaded Montezuma! We won a small battle by destroying his base in Central America, but he has enacted his revenge and this has been a terrible blow to morale for my men. But I digress. The reason we came to you is we need your help. We believe that you hold the key to winning this war. Join us, Peter. You can lead my army to victory.”

This had to be the most ridiculous story Peter ever heard. Why did his life constantly have to revolve around the bathroom in some way? Did his father upset a Slavic deity somewhere in the old country, and he’s seeing the repercussions of those actions?

“I do not like poo,” Peter said.

“Peter, please. We need you,” the little person proclaimed. “Help us and we can help you. You wish to know the mysteries that have been washed away in history? We can answer these questions for you. You wish to know your own history? We can give you the answers you seek about your dark and mysterious past.”

Peter was tired of this petty officer’s plea.

“I do not like poo, and I do not like you,” Peter said as he hit the flush valve.

“No. No! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” and the trio of tiny soldiers were sucked down to the sewer along with whatever terrible tribulation Peter produced in the polluted privy. Peter finished cleaning up, made himself look presentable, and went back out into somewhat normal society.


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