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The Mexican food from the day before knocks on the exit door and screams for freedom.
    Stumbling through the master bedroom, Grundish throws open the door to the bathroom, his pants already unbuttoned and around his knees by the time he is halfway to the toilet. Grundish swings his ass around, trips over the pants that have dropped to his ankles and falls backwards onto the toilet seat, just in time to unleash the evil dwelling deep in his bowels. The release is sublime, almost as satisfying as sex. An unbroken rope of southern brown toilet snake coils itself into a perfect umber corkscrew, the point poking out of the water. He stands and examines it. Pride wells up in Grundish; he cannot bear to flush his masterpiece. Rather than ruin the presentation of the perfect dooty, Grundish leaves it unmolested and bunny-hops through the house with his pants around the ankles until he finds the other bathroom. Only then does he wipe. And he wipes. And wipes. And wipes. He wipes until he bleeds. Only then does he stop.
    Still feeling the rush of endorphins from his glorious bowel movement, Grundish’s pre-migraine throbbing ebbs, leaving him clear-headed enough to finish his mission. In an envelope in the underwear drawer he finds a stack of cash. In another drawer he discovers a stack of magazines with pornographic images of young children. His stomach churns, his head throbs, and the migraine feeling returns. Grundish spreads the magazines out on the kitchen counter and leaves a note on top of them that says, “Go ahead and call the cops. I dare you.” In the medicine cabinet he finds the Xanax, Klonopin and a variety of other pharmaceuticals, all of which he grabs. Grundish takes a bottle of expensive cologne for Askew. He loads as much premium liquor as he can with the rest of the booty into a daypack that he finds in the front closet. Before leaving, Grundish orders an entire week’s worth of vile pornography on pay-per-view and leaves the television running with the volume at full blast. He goes into the bathroom one last time and admires his work. Stopping once more at the liquor cabinet, he sucks hard at a bottle of Scotch to stave off the imminent hangover migraine that looms above him. And then he sneaks out the back door, grabs his bike, and peddles away unnoticed. First it’s back to the trailer to unload the boosted goods, and then, off to work to maintain the appearance of an upstanding citizen contributing something of value to society.

6
     
    The thought of spending another day as a human billboard chips away at Grundish’s spirit, wears it down to a sensitive exposed nub. To go from the high of burgling the house of a Grade-A shithead and back to standing in the hot sun, hung over and waving at people in their cars who don’t give a shit, it’s like throwing himself at the wall. It ain’t that pretty at all. Grundish dumps random pills from the pilfered prescription bottles and blister packs into his palm and thoughtlessly washes them down with a handful of warm water from the kitchen tap. He lies back in the recliner, rests his eyes, and waits for the sweet pharmaceutical numbness.
    When Grundish opens his eyes again, Turleen is exiting the bathroom with a jelly jar of foamy amber liquid. She sets the jar on the counter. “There it is, fella. I filled it up and then some, I did. Why’d you say you want my pee again?” She sits down at her newly staked out position on the couch and removes her upper plate of dentures, setting them on the coffee table beside her.
    “Thanks, Turleen,” says Grundish. He grabs the jar; the outside of it is moist. He pours the warm liquid into the reservoir tank of the prosthetic strap-on penis. The urine smells like overly-ripe broccoli. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but my parole officer randomly does pee tests on me. I don’t feel like going back to prison just because I occasionally partake, if you know what I mean.”
    “I’m hip to the jive, I am. You do what you