Down the Drain

Down the Drain

Mark A Davis

257

"I don't care, Jay," said Grandpa Anarchy, world's oldest hero.  He was pacing back and forth in the Anarchy cave and talking into a cellphone.  "I know you're low on recruits at the moment, but  there must be someone you can send over.  I'm working an important case and I need a sidekick."

Grandpa was dressed in his usual rumpled gray suit with the silver anarchy symbol stitched over the left breast.   In the background on a giant computer screen, the Anarchy Computer A.I. known as Annie Two -- who appeared as a young 19th-century librarian with wire-rim glasses and her hair tightly wound in a bun -- watched placidly.   The air was musty and cool.  In the far end of the cavernous warehouse, strange objects covered in cloth were gathering dust.

"Look, Jay," said Grandpa, "I've worked with Whole Grain Kid.  You remember him, don't you?  I worked with Boy Waitress, f'gosh sakes!  That was just a boy in a waitress uniform, remember?  Oh yeah, that's right -- he is our secretary now.

"I worked with the Erlenmeyer Flash, and she was a speedster in a costume that she could barely walk in.  I'm certain you remember that, and let's not forget Low Blood Sugar Boy, or his replacement, Lifesaver Louie -- with the suit that doubles as a flotation device.  Oh, and then there was Maple Bar Boy -- a kid dressed up like a giant donut.

"I could go on, you know.  The point, Jay, is that my standards are about as low as they can get.  Anyone you send over will be fine, but I need someone.  Got it?  I'll take anyone.  Anyone."

Grandpa put the phone away.  "I don't know why he's so reluctant," he complained.  "This is the guy who sent over Frayed Knot and Dyslexic Girl!"

"Having perused a list of names of those sidekicks currently available at Temporary Superfriends," said Annie Two, "I can verify that none of them sound in the least bit promising..."

"Low Blood Sugar Boy!" Grandpa repeated.  "I worked with Low Blood Sugar Boy!"



An hour later the doorbell rang.  Grandpa Anarchy stepped into the entryway and opened the door.  On the porch was a young lad dressed in what could charitably be described as ceramic armor -- not, mind you, form-fitted armor made out of ceramic alloys, but what looked like  the parts of a toilet, adapted as best the boy could manage to be worn in place of actual armor.   The toilet tank was the chest piece, and parts of several toilet bowls formed the lower half of the costume.  Round sections of carefully cut ceramic armor were strapped to his arms and legs.  The toilet seat itself was around his neck, and rolls of toilet paper were strapped to his belt on each side.  He wielded a toilet brush and plunger.  On his chest was a large image of a happy turd emoticon.

"Greetings, Grandpa Anarchy!" the boy exclaimed.  "My name is Toilet Humor Boy!"  This was followed by a loud farting noise.

"Yeeeaaaah," Grandpa said slowly, "I don't think so," and slammed the door.

FINI