The Poop Store Pt. 1

Warning: the following contains immature content not suitable for readers age 8 and up. 

It had been years since Charlie’s last trip to The Poop Store. Yet here he was, a man of 40 years old, sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of his living room, holding the invitation to the “Perfect Ornamentation Of Poop Store,” or “P.O.O.P.S.” The Poop Store would christen their store as they had done every year, by inviting the most elite members of the town to hurl fecal matter at the windows of the grand store. As Charlie had learned during his duration as Poop Deck Manager at The Poop Store, this process was referred to as “Ornamentation.” Thus, the title, “Perfect Ornamentation Of Poop Store.”
Charlie wiped away a brown stain in order to read the last few words of his letter.
“…and while attending this grand event, you, Dr. Charlie Peepeepants, will officially re-gain entrance into the Poopy Club, and will re-gain your title as an official ‘Piece of Shit.” We sincerely hope that you are able to attend, and we look forward to seeing you again.

Sincerely yours,

John. H Fartbutt, CEO of The Poop Store, President of the Poopy Club

Upon reading the name of the signer, Charlie inhaled in surprise. How could that snake, John Fartbutt, be CEO of The Poop Store? John Fartbutt?! It was not possible. How had he gotten away with it?

Years ago, Charlie Peepeepants and John Fartbutt had been competing for a managerial job. Charlie remembered John vividly. John was the kind of person that wouldn’t exactly make it into the country club. He was stocky and skinny, but his head extended almost completely out to his shoulders. As several co-workers had said, “he looks like a walking spoon!” He had greasy blonde hair, which had a different color piece of denim in it every day. He wore a red sequined cape every day, and often swished it around, proclaiming that he was going to disappear. His nose was crooked, and he spoke with a lisp, and a southern accent, even though he claimed to be born and raised in South Africa.
But that wasn’t the oddest part of John Fartbutt. The oddest thing about him was his jar. On a desk in his cubicle, there sat a large, clear glass jar. In January 1995, it had been empty. By February, it was halfway filled with a red liquid, with little green chunks of something floating in it. One day, Charlie had walked by, and curiosity had overtaken him. He asked, “John… what’s in the jar?” Without looking up, John said non-chalantly, “Bats.”
A long silence had ensued, with John casually punching in numbers on his keyboard. Without saying a word, Charlie walked away from the cubicle over to the urine cooler.
So needless to say, John Fartbutt wasn’t the most likeable person in the office. But despite all these traits, Fartbutt had been promoted to the same level as Charlie, in half the time that it had taken Charlie. A new promotion had opened up: the highly coveted position of “Diarrhea Manager.” Charlie knew he would need to get this promotion if he ever dreamed of becoming Regional Supervisor of Poopstains. So needless to say, John and Charlie were forming a bit of a rivalry.
All of his friends, even Sally Vaginapoop, the most skeptical of Charlie’s friends, had said that Charlie was a poo-in for the job. So Charlie had tried not to get too angry when John sent him derogatory faxes, and viruses on his computer. John knew the only way to beat Charlie was to somehow sabotage Charlie. Now, this was a comforting thought to Charlie. John would never get the job, unless he sabotaged Charlie’s life. And Charlie liked to think he knew John Fartbutt, and sincerely believed that John would attempt no such thing.
Charlie did not know John Fartbutt.
He awoke to the sound of coughing. He smelled smoke. He was sweating in his posture-poopic bed. It felt like it was 100 degrees in his room.
His house was on fire.
He threw his sheets off the bed, and dashed to the bedroom door. He checked the doorknob to see if it was hot, because he paid attention in kindergarten. Oddly enough, it was as cold as ice. Charlie stopped for one second to think about how this was physically possible. But he had no time for that. He rushed downstairs, and called out, “Mr. Penis?”
Mr. Penis was his cat, his cat who had travelled with him everywhere. When Charlie had moved to Atlanta, then relocated to Cleveland, then relocated to Toronto, and then once again relocated to Atlanta, and then relocated to a small broom closet in Little Rock, and then relocated back to Atlanta, Mr. Penis had been his only friend throughout the journey.
“Mr. Penis? MR. PENIS??!” Charlie cried out in desperation. But no luck. Charlie did not hear the familiar hissing and growling that usually occurred when he stepped into the living room. There was no time. Mr. Penis would have to save himself. Charlie sprinted towards his front door, and grabbed the metal doorknob. This one was icy cold as well. Charlie stopped dead, and turned to look at the fire behind him. It was dangerous, but Charlie was perplexed. How could the doorknobs be icy cold? Honestly, it made no sense.
He shook it off and sprinted out the door, coughing and sputtering. The smoke was spewing from the house, obscuring Charlie’s vision, but even with his eyes tearing up, he distinctly saw a shape skulking away through the haze. It looked like a walking spoon.
Charlie knew that he could not miss the next day of work, when the Poopypoop evaluators would be coming around, and judging each employee based on Poop Sales, Poopy Product Placement Allocations, and of course, customer service. He knew at once what was going on. John Fartbutt was attempting to make Charlie miss the one evaluation that just might push him to the top. “Well,” thought Charlie, a tiny bit of wet poop slipping out of his butt, “that’s not going to happen.”
He rushed back into the burning house, and sprinted upstairs. He grabbed his best suit, and his most soothing lube, and ran back downstairs, coughing. He burst out of the house, feeling triumphant, and headed to the neighboring “Pooooooooop Hotel,” not even waiting for the fire department to arrive and put out his house.
He showed up at work the next day, furious. He stormed over to John’s cubicle, and was about to start screaming, when he suddenly noticed John’s jar.
It was no longer filled with red liquid. Instead, it was pristine and clear, with one writhing animal inside of it. It couldn’t be…
“Mr. Penis?!” Charlie exclaimed, in shock.
“Yeth, Charlie, it is Mr. Penith,” said John, swiveling in his chair to face Charlie.
“Is he…?”
“Alive?” said John with a menacing smile on his face. “Oh, yeth, quite alive. But… that could change at any minute.” He held up a syringe filled with the red liquid that had previously filled John’s jar. Upon noticing Charlie’s shocked look, he grinned threateningly, and said “You didn’t really think I was keeping bats in that jar, did you?”
“I…I…” Charlie stuttered.
“Bats are a solid object. I was very clearly holding a liquid in there. Bats are not made of liquid. I was not holding bats.”
“Yes, it’s not about… the bats…” Charlie said, confused.
“Did you honestly think that that liquid was bats? How could a liquid be bats at all?”
“We didn’t… it was…”
“Well it wasn’t bats.”
“I understand it was not bats, John.”
“It was poison.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t bats. It was poison in my jar.”
“Ok, I understand that.”
“Bats are not liquid. Poison can be in the form of liquid. The liquid was not bats. It was poison.”
“I understand that, John!”
“And I’m going to kill your cat with the liquid poison.”
“I figured as much, John.”
“Unless of course, you’re willing to make a deal.”
Charlie paused, his eyes narrowed. He was feeling thoroughly frightened and equally frustrated. John had acted odd before, but now, with his red sequined cape shining like the devil at a gay bar, he looked especially evil.
“What do you want, John?” Charlie said, his eyes still narrow with suspicion.
“You know what I want, Charlie.”
“The Diarrhea Manager job.”
“No. Your stapler.”
Charlie was dumbfounded. “My stapler?” he asked quizzically.
“Yes. My stapler isn’t strong enough to puncture my femur, and I’ve noticed that yours is bulkier than mine, and might be able to poke through my leg bone. What do you say?”
Charlie was ridden with confusion. “You only… want my stapler?”
“Yes, Charlie. Like I said, I want to stab a staple through my femur. Just your stapler.”
“Well...” said Charlie, perplexed. “Ok, I will take my cat… and give you my stapler.” He walked back to his desk, staring at the Poop Carpet, trying to figure out John’s actions. He grabbed his apparently amazing stapler, and walked back to John’s cubicle.
“Put the stapler on the table,” said John with authority, staring at Charlie’s hand. Charlie slowly put the stapler on the desk, and carefully reached for the jar containing his cat. John looked up and smiled, something purple poking out from underneath his lips. John did not break eye contact with Charlie as Charlie grabbed the jar, and slowly backed away from John’s cubicle.


Stay tuned for part 2!