The Piss

I can’t stand this country. It is vile. It is dirty.

I swung shut the door of the stall behind me. My fingers groped for the rusty bolt.

Into…a gang bathroom, one toilet next another.

Lowering my pants I let out a stream.

Man this country is vile.

I looked at my reflection above me. Cold, my cheeks had turned to rose and the tip of my nose was pale. The lapels of my great leather jacket lay atop my shoulders like wings, and, above the zipper I could see the rounded top of my sweater through which my collars ascended.

Could sure warm up a bit.

I redirected my stream from the porcelain to the mirror.

Hot gobs of piss splashed against my reflection, sending yellowish beads left and right.

This country is vile, I thought, just vile.

Oh my god said someone next to me.

Delight on my face I let the stream course out even more strongly. Like a waterfall droplets of mist sprayed everywhere. Soon my face was soaked.

Drops dripped off my chin. My cheeks shone in the light of the bathroom. All around me I heard voices of disapproval:

—It’s not right
—But someone had to do it
—Just look at him, he’s in his glory

After I finished I hiked it back into my pants. Then I washed my hands and washed my face. I walked out of the bathroom with the other men.

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