How Simon Sharp Got His Predictive Poo
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| Simon Sharp |
Simon Sharp stood from the toilet after another unsuccessful motion of aching air and liquid. It was a long time since any solid and healthy business had passed from him. This was doubly painful for a man who prided himself on his toilet skills having been trained at an early age by a bowels obsessed mother.
Simon always completed two preliminary wipes before rising and now, soft and absorbent paper in hand, he commenced his third wipe. The third wipe was significant because it was the first where he evaluated the contents of the paper. The evidence on this particular autumn morning was of a mucus oiliness which gave a fair indication of Simon’s unhealthy diet over the past few months. The beginning of the bad eating and excessive drinking had coincided with the end of his relationship with the dusky busty Eve who had run off with the number 29 coachman.
“Sometimes” said Simon out loud to himself “Sometimes I suspect the devil is in my bowels and eating me from the inside out, dragging my...”
Simon stopped short, at once embarrassed at talking to himself and having a healthy atheist fear of the devil; you can’t be sure of anything these days.
Simon continued to wipe hoping for an unmarked sheet or two of paper, but there seemed to be marks on every sheet. After twenty or so attempts Simon realising he would not be fully clean for the whole day, again. He got in the shower hoping that would wash things better. He dried, shaved, dressed and headed to the library where he worked from 10.00 til 6.00, passing the bookmakers on the way through town.
The bookmakers was a favourite stopping point for Simon. His betting hinged on the theory that if he found the toilet paper clean on the first significant wipe it was the legendary perfect poo and a signal that he would have a perfect day. It was a little like saying ‘white rabbits’ on the first of the month. Unfortunately the betting shop remained a confusion of paper slips, mysterious numbers and odd names to Simon. He rarely won.
Simon had a dull day at work - people ordering stupid books and complaining about the selection of long players - before heading home via the Panchestor Arms for too much beer and some whiskeys. He wasted money on snail racing and finished the night by breaking his last five pounds to buy a kebab he did not need or really eat. Simon staggered into his flat, bounced off of a couple of walls, drank as much water as he could manage, brushed his teeth briefly and fell into bed.
Next morning Simon woke feeling surprisingly well. He sat on the toilet and waited for the worst, but despite a not inconsiderable odour the movement felt fairly solid and the first significant wipe was marked, but quite dry. Simon wound off a few more sheets of paper, folded them in half and wiped - there were still marks. As he went to discard the papers something attracted his eye. He paused and re-examined the sheets, there were three separate marks; the first looked like a 2, the second a 13 and in the final mark Simon could just make out a 42. Keeping the paper crossed his mind, but the marks were, as his mother called it, his business, and “your business is dirty, its the devil work”, so he flushed the remarkable sheets away, showered and set out for work. As Simon passed the bookmakers he looked through the window. There was a sign “Bet On The Green Hills Lottery Everyday” and “Just £1 And Three Numbers can win you £460”. Simon put his hand inside his pocket, there was one solitary pound. It was five days until his wages went in the bank. Simon walked into the bookies.
The Green Hills lottery slips were by the counter. Simon ticked the boxes 2, 13, 42 - nothing ventured, nothing gained. The girl at the counter took his bet whilst managing to be beautiful, sweet faced, and disdainful all at once.
The library bustled all morning. It was pension day and there was an extended queue of old people complaining about the large print books, taped novels, obscenity in print, the selection of newspapers and the queue itself. The afternoon settled down to the usual littering of the unemployable warming themselves in easy chairs reading the first thing that came to hand. Two drunks had to be removed for drinking in the reference only section and a care in the community mental patient had to be calmed after a nasty experience with a Chuck Panuick novel.
The bookmakers was still open as Simon walked home. He remembered his little bet. The Green Hills lottery winning numbers were 2, 13, 42 - Simon double checked then headed to the counter expecting the girl to reject his ticket with a sneering scowl, but instead she counted out £460 pound, she even touched her hair and smiled.
The elation of the win and the smile was only slightly tempered by the strange miracle of the lucky sheet of toilet paper. Simon wondered if he should have kept the sheet, maybe it was a magical lucky sheet - he discarded the thought. It was not worth worrying about now the fateful papers slept with the fishes.
Simon enjoyed his good fortune at his local pub and weaved home with a chinese takeaway fragrancing the air around him.
Next morning Simon could still taste Mey Mey’s house black bean sauce as he counted the remaining money, £420. All he could think about was this morning’s visit to the bathroom.
After five minutes of unsuccessful sitting on the toilet, there was not a stirring within so Simon got a cigarette from the lounge and settled back down hoping the nicotine would wake his lower digestive tract. Nothing happened not even a rabbit dropping, zero, zelch, not even a puff of merky air. Simon was bloated, but philosophical about it. He ignored the bookies, spent the day helping social outcasts find trash on the bookshelves, visited a steak house, drank wine and read The Hornstown Herald, he was in such high spirits he laughed at the news.
Next morning Simon felt magnificent. He placed himself on the toilet and immediately passed a fine motion. The first significant wipe shocked Simon to his very core. It was so clear that there was no doubting it - his business marks on the paper read Magna Races Frankie Duttori.
At the bookies Simon found that Frankie Duttori was running in five races. Betting on each horse separately would cut into Simon’s stake money, so he decided to put the five races together as an accumulator, this being both cheaper and having a bigger resulting payout. The beauty behind the counter looked bored, but helped Simon to write the betting slip correctly - £50 accumulator, Doncaster, 2.00 Lazy Runner, 2.30 Lusty Shot, 3.00 Tolstoy’s Trouble, 4.00 Raging Fury and in the 4.30 Hunger Attack.
At the library Simon found it hard to concentrate. The students were mere spectors whispering for ungodly help in plagiarising, the pensioners were waiting to be delivered to heaven or hell and the mothers sat together planning new double parking sequences for the school run.
When the library doors finally shut Simon ran to the bookies. The bookmaker’s screens all black with glowing multi-coloured letters informed the gamblers standing in their cheap shoes of the horses they should have backed. Simon could barely breath as he read, 1st Lazy runner 7-2, 1st Lusty Shot 3-1, 1st Tolstoy’s Trouble 5-1, Raging Fury 4-1, 1st Hunger Attack 8-1. Simon left the bookies with a check for £84,050 and the beautiful bookies clerk on his arm. They ate bloody steaks and stained their lips on the finest red wine the steak house could offer then stumbled to Lilith’s mother’s house. Her mother had gone to bed early so they fucked a dent in the shag pile, excited as much by the burn of the carpets as the heat of their lust. When Simon finally left Lilith he could taste the sweetness of the early morning air and capture the fine pure scent of the clear black blue sky.
The alarm clock rang only an hour after Simon had fallen asleep, he switched it off, rang work to say a stomach bug had laid him low and went to the bathroom.
He was the king of the smallest room, his bowels were now an unstoppable force. The smell was indeed getting worse but the motion slid out all firm and masterful and the first significant wipe spelt out seven reds. Simon checked the papers but could find no horse, dog, football team or anything else for that matter called seven reds.
Simon pondered for most of the day, then feeling hungry dropped into a local restaurant for devils on horse back, eggs and coffee. As soon as the bacon wrapped chicken liver parcel hit his stomach Simon felt a knife like twisting wrench his large colon. There followed a foul belch and an immediate need to rent his bowels. It was a close run thing from the table to the bathroom. He hardly managed to drop his trousers before foul air and liquid, hissed and writhed from him. When he had caught his breath he wiped. The marks spelt out roulette so Simon left his food and went to the bookmakers to see his new love Lilith.
Sadly the laws did not suit Simon, Lilith informed Simon that roulette had been banned in Green Hill since 1934.
“But I want to play tonight” said Simon
“Well we could hop on a coach to Magna City” joked Lilith
“I’ll ring the coach house, you get your passport, we’ll get something suitable to wear when we get there”.
At the coach house Lilith could not stop laughing, Simon continually returned his hand to the bundle of money he had sewn into the lining of his jacket.
In Magna City a black haired stocky taxi driver took them to what he said was the finest casino in town. It was called the Belphegor, an gold leafed art nouveau obscenity. Their shoes clicked guiltily on the marble floor, but half an hour later they emerged from the hotel’s designer clothes shop disguised as extras from a James Bond movie.
The gaming room was full of noise, loud voices, ice chinking glass and small steel balls racing around spinning wheels. Lilith stood close, Simon’s hand sweat in hers. Drinks were brought and they watched.
In the end Lilith said “You need chips” Simon changed all his money and they watched again.
Lilith pulled Simon to a table. The ball came in black. Simon took this as the moment and bet £10,000 on red. The heavy set sable haired croupier spun the wheel, the ball ran and settled comfortably in red number 6. Lilith squealed and kissed Simon’s cheek. Simon said “one” then feeling a small breath of confidence added £20,000 to the £20,000’s worth of chips he had on the table. Red 6 arrived on time again - now there was £80,000 - “two”. Simon added another £20,000, Lilith pulled his sleeve, but Simon did not look to her. Red, £200,000 - “three”. Simon just watched as “four”, £400,000 then; “five”, £800,000; and “six”; £1,600,000 came rolling in. The crowd that had gathered gasped with each win. Simon focused on the chips and the count. When Simon left the chips on the table for a seventh time the croupier looked for help, but the floor manager, a stocky dark haired man, just nodded casually so again the wheel was spun and the ball set on it’s journey. The casino stopped and watched. The seventh roll fell into red 6 just as comfortably as the others - £3,200,000.
The casino erupted, the hotel extended their congratulations, everyone celebrated. At four o’clock in the morning Lilith and Simon rested their carpet burns on irish linen in a complementary bridal suite, but Simon did not sleep. He looked on at his new bride. His thoughts raced out of time with Lilith’s slow sure breathing. “How will I explain this to my mother? A new Mrs Sharp, three million pounds and pungent predictive poo”.
By seven in the morning Simon had given up all hope of sleep, so he dressed, paused to see Lilith still slept and left the room. Amazingly there were still gamblers about in the hotel. The night porter who had been a witness at Lilith and Simon’s wedding was just going off duty and the doorman saluted Simon as he left the hotel.
Simon headed down the promenade watching early bathers and looking for a public toilet. Finally at the far end of the beach he found not a toilet but some deserted and secluded sand hills. His stomach burned and after a look around the sands for walkers he fetched some tissue paper from his pocket and dropped his pants. The smell was choking, but quickly drawn away by the sea breeze. Simon tried to separate the sheets of tissue and in amongst them he found a business card. It said “Live to Bet”, then “We Bet on Anything” and “Name your Price”, then finally an address. Simon stuffed the card back in his pocket. The stain from the first significant wipe left him in no doubt - One more gamble - make it count. Simon finished wiping and raced back to the hotel.
In the bridal suite Lilith still slept even though the eight o’clock sunlight had crept secretly onto her face. Her hair shone, her skin was silk, Simon sat at the end of the bed and idly held the foot Lilith had freed from the sheets.
“What to do?” thought Simon “I could own the world by midnight.”
Simon woke Lilith.
“What do you want?” asked Simon
“Orange juice and scrambled eggs?”
“No Lilith, please wake, I need to know. What do you want from me... us”
Lilith lifted herself onto her elbow. “Now is good, though I don’t know what my mum will say. Comfort, freedom and equality - I’m not sure I want children though”
Simon put his hand in his pocket and read the card again.
“Do you remember this?” He asked.
Lilith turned the card in her hand. “Yes, don’t you? The croupier gave it to you after your win... or was it the floor manager. They looked awfully similar. Maybe it’s a family business. You’re not going there are you?”
“Get dressed. We have to go now. I can’t explain, trust me, we must hurry” said Simon.
The address was just along the coast in a little side street off the harbour of a small fishing village. When they climbed out of the taxi it was already two o’clock. Simon held the suitcase of money close to him. The tiny shop was bright yellow, Live to bet written large above the leaded glass windows. Inside it was disarmingly light and airy. A stocky dark haired man came through a door set in a book shelf and smiled warmly. He sat at a large oak desk. The only other furniture was a pair of chairs. Simon and Lilith sat. Simon gave the man the card.
Simon spoke. “I don’t know why...” The man put a finger to his lips.
“Don’t you just love these quiet moments” He smiled again and waited a full minute before he spoke. “I am Mountebank. I believe you have some things of mine.”
Simon opened and closed his mouth to no effect.
“Don’t bother to argue, we both know I am right.”
“We didn’t have to come here you know” Said Lilith. “That money is nothing to do with you. I won’t let you...”
“Lilith, Lilith you were always my favourite, but not everything is about money” hushed Mountebank.
Simon and Lilith looked to one another.
“Yes Simon, we have met before.” Mountebank spoke firmly. “You can take only one of them out of this shop with you. What is it to be?”
Simon looked to Lilith. She smiled, but the smile faded. She removed her wedding ring and walked through the bookshelf door. Simon rested the case of money on the desk then walked across the shop, but as he opened the front door he paused, turned and went back to the desk, picked up the case and shrugged then walked out of the shop. He was filled with a sudden emptiness, but Mountebank says you soon get used to that.
