man scratched at his incredibly hairy balls and let his bladder drain without bothering to lift the toilet seat. Infuriated, Peter lunged up with his mind, his body following his command. With piranha-like teeth protruding, Peter clamped down and tore the man’s member from his body. The urinater screamed in horror as blood spewed like a burst fire hydrant. He stumbled backward, slammed into the far wall and ran out, leaving a trail of crimson behind.
With the small piece of meat sitting at the bottom of the toilet, the water the color of diluted fruit punch, Peter swallowed and flushed the severed penis down the pipes, lost forever.
Over the coming weeks, he grew more and more elastic, able to lunge as if he were made of rubber. He sunk his teeth into numerous asses and genitals, leaving the authorities baffled. Police continuously responding, only to find no assailant.
The bathroom was even visited by paranormal investigators and was dubbed as possibly being haunted. News stations from around the country came to report on the infamous and elusive Bathroom Killer. But ultimately none of the organizations found a thing.
Peter kept killing and maiming until people were too scared to use the bathroom. But over time, customers began showing up, people who didn’t believe or weren’t aware, and then Peter started up his reign of terror again. He continued his onslaught, the only way he knew to keep anyone from dumping in him.
Then late one night, as a crescent moon hung high in the air, his mother came for a visit.
* * *
The bathroom was remarkably cleaner than when Marla had first visited. She could almost swear, if she did such things, that she was in a different place. The walls were scrubbed clean and painted over and the air quality had a flowery aroma to it. Lilac, she presumed.
She approached the stall and stepped into the small space with a look of disgust on her face. Looking at the commode with the eyes of a maddened dog, she said, “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Peter. I left you here in the hopes of teaching you a valuable lesson.” She sighed, then put the seat's lid down and sat. “Maybe I was too hard on you. This punishment too rough. Did it push you over the edge?” She patted the bowl’s side as if patting Peter’s head.
* * *
Peter seethed with hatred, the toilet water beginning to boil. He hated his mother and detested what she had turned him into, but at least he was no longer helpless. He had learned not to give up or put up with anything. Normal mother’s spanked their children, or grounded them, or put soap in their mouths for swearing. Those were reasonable punishments.
Peter remained still, listening to her drone on and on about how disappointed she was in him. Blah, blah, blah. It was her fault he was like this. What did she expect would happen when she turned him into a toilet? He had no choice but to kill, to fight back and make the people fear him.
Peter began pondering killing his mother. Within a few seconds he could have her between his jaws and chew her flesh, or hold her down and drown her. But if he killed her, what would happen to him? Would he become himself again in a year or did she have to perform a spell? He couldn’t risk it and decided to let her live. But he wouldn’t let her go unscathed.
“. . . and I’m still very unhappy with how you’ve behaved,” Marla said, finishing up. As she began to rise from her seated position, the toilet lid flipped up, sending Marla flying off the seat and crashing onto the cold tile floor. She screamed in anger, pushing herself up on all fours. A loud groaning noise erupted from below like a small earthquake. Getting to her feet, she straightened her blouse, spun around, and began hollering at Peter.
The groaning, like a giant’s empty stomach, grew louder, almost drowning out Marla’s voice. She began backing away, a feeling of trepidation falling over her.
Like a geyser at Yellow Stone, a thick stream of raw
With the small piece of meat sitting at the bottom of the toilet, the water the color of diluted fruit punch, Peter swallowed and flushed the severed penis down the pipes, lost forever.
Over the coming weeks, he grew more and more elastic, able to lunge as if he were made of rubber. He sunk his teeth into numerous asses and genitals, leaving the authorities baffled. Police continuously responding, only to find no assailant.
The bathroom was even visited by paranormal investigators and was dubbed as possibly being haunted. News stations from around the country came to report on the infamous and elusive Bathroom Killer. But ultimately none of the organizations found a thing.
Peter kept killing and maiming until people were too scared to use the bathroom. But over time, customers began showing up, people who didn’t believe or weren’t aware, and then Peter started up his reign of terror again. He continued his onslaught, the only way he knew to keep anyone from dumping in him.
Then late one night, as a crescent moon hung high in the air, his mother came for a visit.
* * *
The bathroom was remarkably cleaner than when Marla had first visited. She could almost swear, if she did such things, that she was in a different place. The walls were scrubbed clean and painted over and the air quality had a flowery aroma to it. Lilac, she presumed.
She approached the stall and stepped into the small space with a look of disgust on her face. Looking at the commode with the eyes of a maddened dog, she said, “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Peter. I left you here in the hopes of teaching you a valuable lesson.” She sighed, then put the seat's lid down and sat. “Maybe I was too hard on you. This punishment too rough. Did it push you over the edge?” She patted the bowl’s side as if patting Peter’s head.
* * *
Peter seethed with hatred, the toilet water beginning to boil. He hated his mother and detested what she had turned him into, but at least he was no longer helpless. He had learned not to give up or put up with anything. Normal mother’s spanked their children, or grounded them, or put soap in their mouths for swearing. Those were reasonable punishments.
Peter remained still, listening to her drone on and on about how disappointed she was in him. Blah, blah, blah. It was her fault he was like this. What did she expect would happen when she turned him into a toilet? He had no choice but to kill, to fight back and make the people fear him.
Peter began pondering killing his mother. Within a few seconds he could have her between his jaws and chew her flesh, or hold her down and drown her. But if he killed her, what would happen to him? Would he become himself again in a year or did she have to perform a spell? He couldn’t risk it and decided to let her live. But he wouldn’t let her go unscathed.
“. . . and I’m still very unhappy with how you’ve behaved,” Marla said, finishing up. As she began to rise from her seated position, the toilet lid flipped up, sending Marla flying off the seat and crashing onto the cold tile floor. She screamed in anger, pushing herself up on all fours. A loud groaning noise erupted from below like a small earthquake. Getting to her feet, she straightened her blouse, spun around, and began hollering at Peter.
The groaning, like a giant’s empty stomach, grew louder, almost drowning out Marla’s voice. She began backing away, a feeling of trepidation falling over her.
Like a geyser at Yellow Stone, a thick stream of raw
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