By Rose Bialk
I used to love the gloomy Portland weather. I stay inside most days, so the sun and I are hardly on the best terms. Therefore, I am always grateful when I look out the window and see heaps of gray clouds rolling in. But what I loved most was the rain. Nothing was more calming to me than hearing the *wap* *wap* *wap* of raindrops sprinkling the pavement. That was, until just a few weeks ago, when I heard the damndest sound in the lavatory of my residence.
I had drunk one too many cups of joe, and I went to relieve myself when I heard it. *wap* *wap* *wap*. I knew for a fact that there was no rain falling. But what could this odd sound be? Some leaky pipe? I continued pondering, but it was only when the tempo began to increase rapidly that an awful realization struck me *wap* *wap* *wap* *wap* *wap*. The sound was coming from the stall next to me.
I froze. If I had half the sense I used to, I would have gotten the hell outta there, and I implore you to abandon this sordid tale and live out the rest of your life in blissful ignorance. I know I would if I could. But it was far too late for me then, and I was not the man I once was.
There was a gooner in our midst, whom I was determined to capture white-handed. I waited in that stall for what felt like an eternity, utterly astounded by his stamina. It was only once the noise ended and the door slammed that I moved from my seat.
Later that day, I checked in with the crotchety old landlord who owned the place. Once I spilled my guts, the crotchety 20-year-old geezer muttered something to himself before he looked me up and down.
“Say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a broad over at your place,” he grumbled.
Incensed, I stormed out of his office. Mao may have had a few screws loose, but he got one thing right. A landlord is about as useful as a condom in a gunfight. It seemed I would have to take matters into my own hands; this sicko certainly was.
As I strolled back to my quarters, I spotted the dame that lived just a few doors down leaning against her door frame with her hands stuffed in her pockets. She asked why I was coming from the landlord’s office with such a sour expression. I had no heart to tell her the truth, an innocent little thing like her. I said my heater was on the fritz and the landlord would do squat about it.
Before she had time to respond, I pushed past her and reached my door. Just as I opened it, I cast a forlorn look her way. She was heading towards the bathroom. All I could do was hope the gooner had finished.
It rained that night. This time, I got not a wink of sleep. The constant *wap* *wap* *wap* of the falling water assaulted my ears. I had to put a stop to this.
It was 4:54 a.m. when I crawled out of bed and began preparing for my bathroom stakeout. I cobbled together some smokes and dailies I had lying around to pass the time, including The Mossy Log, voted the 16th best collegiate newspaper in the nation. Someone had to apprehend this despicable gooner, and if not me, then who?
Time inched forward at a snail’s pace. I kept my ears open for any wapping, but all I heard was the usual splashing and plopping that occurs in a lavatory. I had finished reading my dailies, even stooping so low as to yet another Opinion article about the Bon. I was down to my last smoke as a seed of doubt planted itself in the back of my mind and began to grow roots. Was this stakeout just a waste of time? Was skipping all my classes to catch a gooner a bad idea? Just as I began to contemplate throwing in the towel, I heard it.
*wap* *wap* *wap*.
I gasped so suddenly I accidentally Wu-Tanged my smoke. I could still hear the wapping over my coughing fit. If anything, the wapping increased as I coughed. I found this interesting, ’cause if I was gooning in a public place, I would slow my roll if I heard someone else, not increase it.
I waited with bated breath as he masturbated. Suddenly, with a groan I recognized from my days in the war, the wapping ceased, and I heard a series of opening and closing doors. I sat in shock for a moment before I got my head on straight and bolted to my feet. The gooner was no longer in the shitter.
I burst out the door and looked up and down the hall. There was a sea of bodies milling about. How could I know which of them was the low-down sonofabitch? It could have been anyone. I was drowning in despair when something caught my eye. I had been listening quite intently while inside the bathroom, and I had not heard anyone shower for hours.
Then, I spotted a hand with suspiciously pruney fingers. I pushed my way through the crowd and grabbed the pruned hand. I had finally caught the culprit, who whipped their head around to face me. The dame that lived just a few doors down!
I was in disbelief. All this time, I was not chasing a gooner, but a goonette! She peered into my visage with a wicked smirk and pulled me into her room. I tried to break free from her grasp, but her pruney fingers gripped me so tightly it felt as if my arm had been suctioned to her hand. She slammed her door shut behind me and attached her wrinkled digits to my neck, crushing my windpipe. As I faded in and out of consciousness, all I could muster was one word.
“Why?”
She replied with a single word of her own.
“Attention.”
She gave my neck a squeeze and my vision went black.
When I came to, I deduced where she had taken me before I had even opened my eyes. I could recognize that rank odor in any state, cognizant or not. She had brought me to where it all started. Bathroom 554. I opened my eyes and saw the fuzzy pink handcuffs responsible for the strikingly familiar sensation around my wrists. She had chained me to a pole in one of the stalls. Still reeling from the realization, all I could do was mutter “Why” over and over.
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” she said, mocking me. I hung my head in defeat.
“I know about the little diary you’ve been keeping,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry! It’ll never see the light of day! I promise! Just let me go!” I pleaded.
She cocked her head to the side and looked at me inquisitively.
“You really haven’t put it together yet, have you?”
I shook my head miserably.
“This, all of this, it has all been for attention,” she gloated. “There are countless places I could have gooned in privacy, yet I chose here, a busy public bathroom. There is nothing quite like the thrill of being exposed in public, knowing at any moment I could be discovered and shamed. Yet somehow, you all couldn’t fathom the simple fact that a woman could be responsible. When word started spreading of my deeds, everyone assumed it was a man. No one suspected me, which made my public gooning so easy to get away with. Too easy. Once I knew I would never be caught, there was no thrill, no excitement. And then you came.”
“But why me?”
“Because you paid attention. I noticed you spying on me the other day. I recognized you by your MSCHF Big Red Boots. Knowing you were right there, listening to me, the thrill I longed for finally returned. That was one of the longest goon sessions I have ever indulged in. I tried to leave you clues so you could follow my trail. I thought walking to the bathroom with my hands in my pockets in front of you was too obvious, but you just looked at me like a lost puppy. That’s why I had to lure you here. You had to see it to believe it.”
She raised her hand and wiggled her duplicitous digits in front of my face as she spoke.
She had played me like a damn fiddle. This is exactly what she wanted all along. And I think I finally understood her endgame. I looked up at her contemptuously, and she met my gaze with glee.
“So, have you finally put the pieces together?” she asked.
“You want me to publish this article. You want the whole world to know your twisted deeds. You get off on the attention.”
“Ah, finally. Yes, that was my goal all along. But I don’t want you to publish the article as is. I have had a special ending planned for this story from the start, and you are the lucky scribe who has the honor of recording it. Now, pay very close attention; you know how much I like it.”
She handed me a paper and pen.
Just as I had abandoned all hope, I heard a bang on the stall door.
“Campo, open up!”
A frantic squeal escaped the goonette’s lips, and she jumped to her feet with a startle. She looked at the door, then back at me. I tried to scream for help, but before my vocal cords could commence their vibration, she shot her hand toward me. Just before her phalanges had a chance to muzzle me, I jerked my head to the left, narrowly avoiding her lethal grasp.
Her mitts whizzed past my head and stuck themselves to the fuzzy pink handcuffs clasped around my wrists. As she desperately sought to detach her pruned fingers from the fuzz, Campo kicked the door down and swarmed the stall. One of them detained her, while another freed me from my rosy shackles.
I rubbed my sore wrists and looked up just in time to witness the goonette become adorned with some bracelets of her own, though hers were of the steel variety. I must admit, the fuzzy pink ones are far more fashionable.
About the Author
