Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction by Bathroom Readers’ Institute Page A

house while I was in kindergarten. The people who formerly lived there had a kid named B.M., and he was about the meanest kid who ever lived. He left a poor wretch of a cat behind—his tail had been cut off, and he had burn spots all over his body. We named him Bob, although my dad said that we shouldn’t get too attached as he wouldn’t have long after Jiggs discovered him.
    One night we awakened to the worst racket. Every dog and cat sound known to zoological science and some new sounds were emitted: Grrr! Fssst! Wowellll! And then it was quiet. My dad said that he had better get the shovel in the morning and lay Bob to rest.
    The next morning Bob was at the back door waiting for food. That’s the last we saw of Jiggs.

Wrestling with Alienation
    Desmond Warzel
    S o I go up to Dutch in the hotel bar after the show and tell him I want to lose the title, ASAP.
    Naturally he thinks I’m joking and turns back to the double vodka he just ordered. Sure, a wrestling title’s just a prop in a TV storyline, but it’s still an honor. The equivalent of star billing.
    “I’m not kidding, Dutch,” I insist. “I saw Ricky yesterday.”
    He isn’t amused. “Ricky” is Rick King, the highest-drawing world champ in company history until he disappeared six months ago. After an appropriate mourning period, Dutch slapped together a tournament, the Rick King Memorial Tournament, and put the belt on me. Killer ratings, too. I could never draw the crowds Ricky did, but Dutch figured I’d do until he could build up a credible challenger to beat me.
    Dutch doesn’t like me making jokes about Ricky.
    “He showed up in my hotel room,” I explain, feeling like the dumbest guy ever bred. Dutch thinks I’m on something, and he is pissed , because one of the reasons he trusted me with the belt was my pristine, scandal-proof bloodstream.
    “I’m not looking forward to elaborating on this, Dutch, so promise me you’ll hear me out.” I take a deep breath and blurt it out.
    “Ricky told me he was kidnapped by aliens.” Dutch doesn’t even twitch an eyelid, just keeps shooting me that toxic glare of his. “He figured it out right away. It was partly the instantaneous teleportation, partly the stark-white prison cell he found himself in, but mostly it was the detainees filling the opposite bankof cells, specifically, their unusual quantities of limbs and their violations of radial and bilateral symmetry.
    “Well, that’s how he put it. You know, he’s a Yale man.
    “Anyway, Ricky noticed two things. First, every so often, guards, no better-looking than the inmates, came and took away two prisoners, and, shortly thereafter, brought one of them back. Second, one, and only one, of his possessions had accompanied him: the championship belt. That’s why it wasn’t with the rest of his stuff, Dutch. Ricky added these circumstances up and realized that what he’d thought was the humming of engines was really crowd noise, filtered through countless layers of, well, whatever UFO bulkheads are made of.
    “Ricky studied the occupants of the other cells and noticed that, diabolical as they appeared, each was hideous in its own way. He figured it must be one being per planet, and he was Earth’s representative. It made sense when he considered the years of TV signals that had radiated into space, all showing him besting his foes and wearing that gold belt embossed with WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT WRESTLING CHAMPION. The only part that strained credulity was that intelligent beings had apparently thought our storylines and match choreography were legit.
    “Don’t look at me that way, Dutch, that’s what he said.
    “Well, when the guards finally came for him, he tried to explain, but they either couldn’t understand him or didn’t care. They shoved him out into an enormous arena whose floor and walls were already stained with blood of every hue. Big video screens everywhere, and seemingly infinite grandstands receding up into the dark, filled