The Butt Ghost

Mr. Pluck walked into my office today and calmly mentioned, “There are claw marks on the inside of the toilet seat.”

“What the fuck?”

“The toilet seat, the flap-thing that comes down to cover it. There were claw marks in it.”

“Like—cat claw marks or something?”

“No, like—fuck someone has buried me alive in a toilet kind of claw marks.”

My stomach felt queasy which made me feel like I needed the toilet. I suppressed it.

“Any idea why?”

“No, probably some weird butt-eating ghost or something,” he shuddered, “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Then why the hell did you tell me?”

“So you could think about it.”

“You—“

Just then, our co-worker Kyle popped his head in. “Hey dudes! What’s up?”

We both nodded to him.

Kyle slapped his hand on the door frame and said, “Boys I had a wild weekend—hold on, I gotta drop my shit off in my office then drop a shit if you know what I mean? Hah!”

Neither Mr. Pluck nor I laughed—also, I noticed, Mr. Pluck didn’t mention the toilet seat. I waited until our co-worker had stomped down the hall toward the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you tell him about the butt ghost?” I asked.

He sipped his coffee, then noted, “why didn’t you?”

I nodded slowly. We could hear Kyle beat-boxing from his office down the hall.

“What kind of grown man is named Kyle?” Mr. Pluck asked.

I shrugged. “I guess teenagers named Kyle gotta grow up someday, right?”

“Hmm, yeah. I guess,” he took a thoughtful pause, then, “I guess I just figured they all killed themselves.”

Behind Mr. Pluck, Kyle came walking back by with a packet of baby wipes tucked under his arm.

“Deuce time!” he said, holding up a peace sign, adding, “deuces.”

Then he laughed himself down the hall toward the bathroom.

Mr. Pluck watched him go, then turned back to me frowning. “Do you think he came to work with two bad jokes and decided to space them out–or since we didn’t laugh hard enough at the first one, he went and came up with another?”

I shrugged. And then the screaming began from the direction of the bathroom.

I looked at Mr. Pluck—him at me.

“Door open or closed?”

“Closed,” I told him. “Thanks.”

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