The Poop Store Pt. 2

 READ PART 1 FIRST!

The work went by as usual. Charlie went about making calls to his poop suppliers, making sure the shitments were set to deliver on time. But he felt on edge. When would the Poopypoop evaluators show up?
Oddly enough, right as he thought that, two large suited men wearing jet black sunglasses entered the office. They looked better than most of the people working in the cubicles, because their pristine suits weren’t covered in poop stains, and from their slick black hair, Charlie could tell that unlike most people in this office, they weren’t required to use the store’s special brand of “ShamPOO.”
They walked from desk to desk, writing down notes, using a large pen that looked like a lumpy turd. Charlie tried to focus on his work, but found his palms were sweating, and he kept typing in “pee” instead of “poop.” At last, he just gave up on working altogether, and waited for the two suited men to come his way.
“Charlie Peepeepants?”
Charlie took a deep breath, and turned to face the two suited men. “Actually, it’s Dr. Charlie Peepeepants,” he said, extending a shaking hand and faking a smile. “I got my bachelor’s in poop studies at Brown. We called ourselves the Brown Poops.”
“Interesting, Dr. Peepeepants,” said one suited man, not looking up from his clipboard. “Well, I’m Number One, and you can call this man Number Two.”
Number Two nodded his head.
“Let’s get right down to it, Dr. Peepeepants. You know you are up for the position of… what is that?”
He pointed to the jar that Charlie had received hours earlier. Mister Penis was still inside, trying to claw his way out.
“Oh…that’s my penis… I mean, that’s Mister Cat… I mean, er…” Charlie said, stammered.
“You know that company policy forbids bringing cats to the office, Mister Peepeepants?”
“Doctor Peepeepants.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely important right now,” replied Number One, still not looking up from his clipboard. “As I said, cats are not allowed in the office, correct, Number Two?”
“Yes, Number One. The only animals allowed in the office are iguanas, orioles, cardinals, scarab beetles, and zebras if their belly is less than 70 inches in circumference.”
“No cats.” Number One at last looked up from his clipboard, and lowered his sunglasses to look Charlie in the eye. “No cats seems like a pretty simple rule to follow, Mister Peepeepants.”
“Doctor Pee-“
“We need somebody who’s going to comply by company code, Mister Peepeepants. If you don’t follow the rules, then you’re simply not Diarrhea material.”
“I think we need to go, Number One,” said Number Two.
“Yes, we should go, Number Two,” replied Number One. They turned around in unison, and Number One said, “Now, does anybody have a stapler I could borrow?” 
Hoping to save grace, Charlie shouted, “I do! It’s right-“ and then he realized what had happened. John Fartbutt had managed to sabotage Charlie Peepeepants. He had set Charlie’s house on fire, stolen Charlie’s beloved cat, and threatened to kill Mr. Penis. And by making the deal, Charlie had not only broken one of the major Poop Rules, but had effectively given John the only thing that might save his opportunity for promotion, his stapler.
“I’ve got a thtapler!” said John, standing up as if on cue, and he smiled right into Charlie’s eyes. Charlie felt the hatred fill his body. John Fartbutt had ruined his life. It was all an elaborate plot concocted by John, in order to get the Diarrhea Manager job.
“You son of a bitch!” he yelled at John, standing up in rage.
“Mister Peepeepants!” exclaimed Number One. “Sit down!”
“I’m Doctor Peepeepants, and this asshole set me up!”
“Charlie, thit down, now,” John said lazily.
“NO! I will not just sit down and take this! I…I fire myself!” Charlie yelled in outrage.
“You mean you quit?” Number One asked in a mocking tone.
“I didn’t know that that was what it was called!” Charlie screamed. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mister ‘Diarrhea Manager,’ I am going to take Mr. Penis, and leave!”
John looked at him, smiling. Number One and Number Two stared at him, blank-faced.
“All right! Well… I’m leaving!” Charlie grabbed the jar awkwardly, and after a quick glance around, he stalked out, Mr. Penis in a jar under his arm. He fumed as he heard the conversation between Number One and John as he left.
“So Mister Fartbutt, is it?”
“Yeth, thir.”
“That’s quite the stapler you’ve got. Is it strong enough to staple the femur bone?”
“Yeah, you want to see the wound?”

The rest of the story writes itself. John was promoted, and from the looks of this letter, had continued to be promoted, right to the top of the Poop Store company. Charlie moved in with his mother, a woman who had coated every wall in tinfoil, except for one wall, that was instead covered in toilet paper, because “it smelled like grandpa’s poop.” He got a job as a pizza delivery boy. Ever since he quit, Charlie had longed to smell poop just one more time. But the poopy scent was long gone from his nostrils.

Could it be? Could Charlie possibly be about to smell the fantastic smell of farts and poop once more? Or was this another one of John’s tricks? Charlie didn’t know how John could possibly ruin his life more, but he knew John, and knew that John Fartbutt could always have something up his sleeve. He stroked Mister Penis, who had died 2 months ago, but still had the softest fur.
“What do we do, Mister Penis? Should we go? What’s that, Mister Penis? I should go and get my revenge on John? Bring a knife? Oh, good idea!”

So John showed up at the Poopypants Hotel Lobby on the designated date, a maniacal smile now on his face. He opened the double doors to the lobby, and met… darkness. The entire room was dark, except for a stool in the middle of the room. A single lamp hanging down from the ceiling illuminated the stool. Sitting on this stool was a small white envelope. Charlie looked around. What was going on?
He expected something to happen: somebody to jump out at him, something to fall from the ceiling… but nothing happened. The only thing apparent in this room was the mysterious envelope.
Charlie approached it cautiously, ready for anybody to jump out, for Ashton Kutcher to appear and say he was being Punk’d. But silence dominated the room.
“Screw it,” said Charlie, and casually walked over to the envelope. In scrawled writing on top of the envelope, it read “C.P.” Charlie Peepeepants. Charlie reached down warily, and noticed his hand was shaking. He picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. Inside was what looked like a piece of graph paper. Charlie pulled out the slip of paper, and it was, indeed, graph paper. And in scrawled writing, the note read:

“Charlie.
When you read this, I will already be in Madagascar. Don’t attempt to contact me. But if you really need to I’ve put my contact information in this letter. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry that I set your house on fire. Also, if you were confused about the doorknobs, I rubbed ice all over them to sterilize them. Anyway, I didn’t mean for you to get fired. I just really wanted your stapler. I didn’t think you would get fired or anything over this whole thing. Sorry. I hope this makes up for it.”
Charlie felt a small weight inside the envelope. He looked inside, and found a small brown lumpy object. It couldn’t be.
He lifted the turd out of the envelope, staring at it in awe. If this was what he thought it was, Charlie was rich.
He looked at the bottom of the turd, and carved into it were the words, “Certified ‘Poop Store’ turd.”
John had given Charlie the most valuable asset of Poop Store industries, a single turd. Charlie sniffed it, and knew it was true. The poopy smell of a Poop Store poop filled his nostrils, and Charlie breathed it in deeply for the first time in years.
“Thank you, John,” Charlie said, his eyes closed. John had not meant to sabotage Charlie. John had only wanted a stapler that could puncture his femur.
Charlie grabbed his turd firmly in his hand, tucked the letter in his pocket, and headed out of the hotel.
He nearly cried. He once again felt like a true Piece of Shit.