There were many things about his lower class flatmates that annoyed Augustus Farnsworth IV, but none more so than the fact that the six of them had to share a single bathroom.
As someone who grew up on a property, so vast, he could attend to his functions in a different W.C. every day of the week, this was taking some getting used to. Alas, until such time as he decided to sire a child for his parents, in order to ensure that the Farnsworth bloodline would march on, he was, financially at least, on his own.
He turned the bathroom door handle to find it locked as per usual. When he enquired how long the current incumbent would be, the only response he received was the sound of a turd plopping in the toilet bowl. Not the wittiest retort he’d ever heard, but it spoke volumes as to how strained relationships had become between himself and the common clay around him.
And yet this impudence did not anger for he was pre-occupied with a nagging that had been with him for several days. Something was missing from the flat, something just was...
…not…
…right.
As he waited to use the facilities, he graced the kitchen to make himself a coffee.
Emptying crockery from an overflowing basin, he stopped dead at the sound of stagnant dishwater gurgling down the sink.
He rushed through and banged furiously on the doors of his flatmates, only Gaz did not appear.
“Have any of you heard our toilet flush in the past three days? “, he asked.
They all shook their heads.
“Have any of you used the toilet or did you just wait until you arrived at work?”
A tidal wave of epiphany drowned them all.
With one firm shoulder charge, Augustus barged through the cheeseball lock on the bathroom door.
The stench was inconsolable.
And there, sitting upon the throne, trousers around his ankles, eyes wide open in terror, was the three day old corpse of Gaz.
Augustus noticed there were flies everywhere, yet none of them flew, so bloated and sleepy were they from feasting on their human banquet.
Plop!
He couldn’t help looking between his ex-flatmate’s legs. Even from this distance he could see a pulpy tartare of flesh, by a pubic verge, where once his genitals had belonged.
Plop!
Holding his breath, he crawled forward and peered into the splattered bowl , just in time to see a chunk of putrid intestine drip, from a raw mutilated anus, into the mouth of a rat, as big as a cat, that scurried up and leapt towards the throat of Augustus Farnsworth IV.
There would never be a V.
Bio: A 42 year old Scotsman fascinated with the written word, primarily writing screenplays. Wrote, directed, acted and financed my first movie, 'E.V.P.' last year but looking to tackle books in the future having attempted this first foray enclosed.