Poop-Soup Throne – A short story

Chinese lantern in a barn. Shot on 35mm Kodak Portra800.
Chinese lantern in a barn. Shot on 35mm Kodak Portra800.

At the beginning of Spring I went puddle-jumping. I don’t mean that I took several short flights on small aircraft. I mean I went around jumping, with my feet, in puddles of water. Gosh, what joy.

The air was not crisp. It may have felt crisp to someone coming from humid high temps, but to me it felt rubbery and dull… though still fresh, in a way. Fresh but not crisp. It felt the way relatively warm air feels after months of blunt winter. The weather reports said the high temperature would be 49º. It was not hot, but felt warm and soft, with a noticeably thickish texture. Cold air is thin.

Out I went in warmish air that felt smooth but spongy, like an oak leaf, and I jumped in a literal shitload of puddles. I jumped in small puddles and large puddles, and other puddles that were in-between sizes. The first puddle I jumped in was poop-brown and syrupy. It was a flooded pothole in the alley behind my house; the back alley is dirt and stone, and turns to mud in rain or melting snow. When I jumped in that puddle, liquid dreadlocks sprouted around my feet, reaching up and out until gravity recovered and yanked them back into splashing oblivion.

I’m really good at puddle-jumping. I can splash some of the biggest splashes I’ve ever seen, from all puddle-jumpers… and I’ve seen a lot of puddles get jumped.

A lot.

Don’t even question me, because you can’t imagine how many puddles I’ve seen jumped by how many jumpers. They would take years to recount. So yea, I’m pretty damn legit when it comes to puddles and jumping in them.

I have to be honest though – much of my ability when it comes to expression via stagnant water is attributable to genetics. I’m obese. Like, three hundred pounds, five-foot-nine obese. Momentum is on my side, for sure. I’ve also been gifted with considerable athleticism, considerable especially given how obese I am. I have a foot-and-a-half vertical jump. Yea, that’s not stellar I can’t jump over most dogs… but I’m also five feet, nine inches tall and weigh three hundred pounds. If you saw me jump you would hastily retire “when pigs fly” from your idiomatic repertoire.

Anyway, as my puddle-jumping escapades on this early-Spring day started ramping up, I found myself drawn blocks away from my house. I followed the puddles down the alley, up Blufont Street towards Thinway Ave, and down Thinway, splish-splashing all the way to Queen Street. As I crossed Queen, which marks the informal eastern border of the main downtown area, I noticed to my left, on the other side of Thinway, perhaps the single most epic puddle I have ever goddamn seen.

This puddle was massive. A real lunker. I could have laid down inside it with limbs spread wide and been completely underwater, save for my belly, but let’s not get too involved with the details, mmkay? It looked like a brown Red Sea… a Brown Sea… though more of a brown-gray, seasoned with tendrils of those ephemeral pearlescent colors begat by roadway pollutants.

I was stunned. I froze and gaped at the behemoth crater of diarrhea that stood no more than thirty feet away.

I had to have it. I had to destroy it. I was going to transform its placid thing-ness by plunging my two black, size five and five-and-a-half, respectively, velcro New Balance sneakers directly into its taunting brown-gray-and-other-colors depths so fucking hard that the poop-water contained therein would drench every goddamn surface in town and everyone would know that I AM. the Puddle fucking Master.

I stopped gaping. I closed my lips to resolute tightness, narrowed my eyes to the goal, and flared my nostrils to facilitate the acquisition of much-needed additional oxygen. My hands were in fists neither too tight nor too loose. My posture was neither too upright nor too hunched. I was in epitomic surgical-killer form.

I began marching towards my destiny. One tiny chubby foot in front another slightly-different-sized tiny chubby foot. I glared at the approaching double-yellow road line.

“THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?” I said in my head to that punk-ass line. “YOU GONNA STOP WHO??”

As I got to that stupid double-yellow line and forced extra hate through my soles as I strode over it, a car horn erupted in sustained, deafening discord to my right, accompanied by a brief SCRIT! of tires on road.

“Hey lady!” shouted some block-faced inhabitant of the offending vehicle.

I turned my head and stared. Glared. My eyes might even have spit blood under strain of the intensity with which I shot mind-bullets at that fucking dipshit.

“Hey lady!” He shouted again. “Why don’t you put on some fucking pants?! My kids don’t need to see that, and I sure as fuck don’t want to!”

I kept staring. Glaring. Mind-bullets becoming mind-rockets piercing the hood of this jerkoff’s ’98 Toyota Piece-of-Catshit and exploding into wrenched, bloody metal ribbons of divine justice.

I slowly lifted my left foot, rolling it forward heel-to-toe, picking it up, and rolling it back down heel-to-toe. I proceeded with my right foot, continuing to stare at the assdouche in the Catshitmobile. My pace quickened imperceptibly as I stoically made my way to puddle Valhalla.

Without hesitation I strode fluidly into bliss. Reaching the center of the chocolatey, gravelly poop-soup, I turned my body to match my glaring head. Fully facing the now-silent idiot in the Crapcar, I steadily lowered myself, bare-ass-first until my flabby cheeks were cradled by the gentle pressure of my rainwater, snow melt, and road grime throne. I turned my shining face with a hint of wry smile heroically skyward, raising a rigid, solitary digit to my new friend in the Camry.

The world was mine.


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