The Shower

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door.”

I'd been driving all night, strung out from the cold, the road, and eight tabs of acid. As I drove through the heights of Wilmington, Delaware, a city that made Baltimore look like Beverly Hills, I spied an open garage, lights ablaze, with a fancy sports car inside. Bankers boxes were strewn everywhere. I didn't see a chainsaw, and it looked like the sort of place where I could score an eightball of solid Colombian, so I pulled into the drive.

I was greeted at the door by a lovely blonde who invited me in despite the late hour. "I made cookies!" she proclaimed.

"The cookies are delicious, ma'am, but I really just need a place to stay for the night. Is there a motel nearby?"

"Nonsense! You can stay here. Just don't open the other door in your bedroom that leads to the bathroom. Use the other bathroom down the hall."

"Deal! And thank you so much, ma'am."

"Just call me Jill. And if you need an eightball, there's one in the pantry, top shelf."

"The eightball or its location?"

"Both."

*************

In the middle of the night, I had to piss like a 90-year-old man. I knew I couldn't make it to the bathroom down the hall, so I swung open the forbidden door.

"What the fuck! Get out of here! Can't you see I'm trying to shower with my daughter Ashley? Well? Get out! You wanna go out back and fight? C'mon, man! I'll take you, you son of a bitch!"

Like any good simp, I closed the door and pissed my pants.