Standing before the porcelain throne, he felt a sudden surge of ridiculous formality. “Apologies for the intrusion,” he muttered, and then, with the grace of a priest offering a benediction, he tipped the pot.
The toilet in his tiny studio apartment had decided to rebel. After a routine flush, the water didn’t swirl down with its usual gurgling confidence. Instead, it rose, slow and menacing, like a creature waking from a deep sleep. It stopped a hair’s breadth from the porcelain rim, trembling with dark potential.
His friend replied: Or you could just buy a plunger for $6.
He texted his friend: Defeated the toilet. Used hot water. I’m basically a warlock now.
Then, a sound. A deep, subterranean glug . The water level dipped an inch. Leo’s heart leaped. “Yes!” he hissed. Another glug . Two more inches. The creature was retreating. He saw the faint swirl of a current, lazy but determined. With a final, satisfying whoosh , the entire bowl emptied itself with a sound like a contented sigh.