Summary: When toilets come to life, only true crap can stop them.
Michael Bainbridge was a private investigator hired to investigate the death of his client's best friend and business partner. She said her husband found him dead in the bathroom, but she was skeptical, especially given all remaining publishing company were assets entrusted to him. So, he explored the client's house while they were out. He pulled down his fedora hat as he entered the bathroom.
Michael heard something crash outside. No footsteps followed, setting him on edge. He drew his snub revolver from his coat, turning towards the door. He cocked the hammer back, exhaling slowly. He pressed his ear to the wall, unsuccessfully listening for noise. Cautiously, he turned the handle. Then came the attack.
Michael found himself yanked away from the door. A wet warm adversary wrapped around his hand. He fired his pistol uselessly. Each discharge thundered inside the narrow room, deafening him. He did not have the time or sense to aim, emptying all six cylinders into the wall. He dropped the empty weapon, before pulling with his other hand. It was then he saw the adversary.
A tendril of water, filled with fiber-like strands of feces, wrapped around his arm. Its base terminated at the bottom of the toilet bowl, drawing him down like a tentacle towards a squid's beak. The toilet seat slammed up and down, snapping like the beak of some demonic bird. Two bloodshot and bulging eyes appeared above the tank, staring at him with an inexplicable hostility.
Michael threw himself against the opposite wall, breaking the turd-tentacle's grasp on him. He threw opened the door and ran for the nearest exit. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh air of the hallway after the putrid horror. He relaxed as he sprinted through the doorway, spotting the backdoor down the hall. To his horror, the toilet bowl pursued.
Michael sprinted as fast as he could, but the toilet bowl seemed to read his mind. It hovered over the kitchen table and bar in the house, setting itself down in front of his intended exit. The tendril retracted inside, undulating like a hissing cobra. Instead of striking him directly, a torrent of fecal matter erupted from the bottomless bowl.
Michael improvised. He saw another route, the stairs leading up. It would be a dead end, but he decided a leap from the second story was preferable to what waited in the den. He sprinted up the stairs, as the toilet vomited up a scatological salvo of flushed feces and toilet paper. He looked back, and the bowl made gurgling sounds as poop and filthy water sloshed around its innards. The eyes darted after him, and it hovered up with alarming alacrity.
Michael saw the nearest window grow ever larger as he closed the distance. He moved with nearly superhuman celerity, closing in on the only escape route before him. Yet as he prepared to leap, he saw it hovering directly outside. The toilet waited for him outside the window, with brown fangs arising from the bowl and toilet seat lid. It gnashed them together in anticipation of its next meal. Thinking fast, he ran into the nearest door.
Michael had no doubt how the partner of his client's husband perished. He could not imagine how the thing had appeared outside so fast, save for one. It was unbound by physics, by nature, as he knew it. There were strange things he'd encountered in his time as a private investigator, but this was likely the strangest, and perhaps, the last. He stumbled around the room he found himself in, frantically searching for a weapon.
Michael found none, so he sought a viable substitute. The room was a study, filled with stacks of freshly published books. He recalled the client's husband co-founded a publishing company. The nature of the publishing company became apparent as he scanned the books. A revulsion, rivaling that from the demonic diarrhea-spewing toilet, welled up with his lunch.
Michael looked at horror at the vanity-press published books. He was a casual reader at best, but he knew enough to know bad books when he saw some. There was Caress of the Carnosaur by Ed G. Lorde, a bodice-ripper romance with a well-endowed velociraptor embracing a scantily clad woman. There was Battleground Urth by R. Lon Hubbs, a space opera with the recognizable faces of celebrities on the cover. There was Forty Shades of Twilight by Mary Sue Beyer, a teenage vampire drama. There was Sand-World Legends by Andy J. Kelvin, a shoddy prequel to a popular desert planet novel. Then the door flew opened.
Michael saw the demonic toilet charging directly towards him. The eyes receded and emerged from the tank, a movement he interpreted as blinking. Its turd-stained jaws snapped at him, sloshing water and poo all over the floor. He grabbed the nearest book, and with nothing left but defiant gestures, hurled at his adversary. The book bounded off the toilet's lid, falling directly into the bowl.
Michael heard the splash, and then he saw the toilet's eyes open wide. The beast backed off. Its tendril like "tongue" retracted back into its bowl. Seeing an opportunity, he grabbed fistfuls of the horrid books, and he recklessly hurled them at the toilet. A few landed in the bowl, despite its best effort to divert them. The listed in the air like a punch-drunk boxer, before a final volley sent it crashing to the ground.
Michael took his chance and sprinted outside. Behind him, the toilet lay as inert as when he first saw it. He saw the brown stains that caked the walls, floors, and ceiling, and he decided some jobs were not worth it. The demonic toilet was complication. The horrible books, however, were unforgiveable. Even a diarrhea demon had to have some reading standards.