Gus dared.
The first sign of trouble was the smell. Not the usual, polite dog fart that Gus would blame on the sofa cushions, but a low, sulfurous rumble that made Mark’s eyes water. Gus looked up from his bed with the guilty expression of a creature who had just seen God and disappointed Him.
“Ah,” the plumber replied. “The high-volume artist. Okay. Don’t flush again. Don’t add soap. Soap makes the poop-snake angry. You need a toilet auger. But since it’s 2 AM, try this: boiling water. Slowly. From waist height. The thermal shock sometimes breaks the… sculpture.”
“No,” Mark lied, hugging the plunger like a trophy. “I just saved us a thousand dollars.”
Mark stared at the screen. “Pumpkin. How did you know?”
There was a glug . A deep, mournful sound from the bowels of the earth. Then a whoosh .
The water vanished. The toilet gave a satisfied gurgle . And somewhere in the sewer line, Gus’s creation began its long, slow journey toward the ocean.
The floor became a Jackson Pollock of seasonal gourds and regret.