A Local Pub (For Local People)

The regulars didn't use that toilet. Sometimes, a newcomer would come in. Conversations pause. Every eye drilled into the hapless patron, skewered on all sides by those sharp gazes, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Glancing left and right, wondering if this was a mistake. This place was too local.

Long, torturous seconds would pass, then, as if on signal, the pressure would ease. People would turn back to their drinks, and the hum of chit-chat would return.

At some point, that same newbie would stand up from the table. (They never sat at the bar, and most knew better than to use a booth). There is a specific way people stand when they are hoping to visit the Smallest Room, versus when they are getting a round in. There is a directionless sense of purpose. Instead of turning to the bar, like an anthropomorphic divining rod, they look about, this way and that. They might meander, wearing a hopeful expression, keeping an eye peeled for a helpful sign.

The regulars would smirk behind their pints. A notefolding cock, waving his cash at the bartender, would get waved away with a gesture that said, one minute, I'll be with you in one minute.

Within a minute or two, the "forinner" (such as anyone was known who didn;t have three generations buried, two streets over) would come rushing back out, eyes wide and wild, and mouth agape in horror. Sometimes they were still stuffing stuff back into their trousers. They'd grab their belongings and sprint out, with chuckles swirling around them.

How do I know this? Because I was the newcomer. I pulled down my underwear and lowered myself onto the loo seat, completely unsuspecting. I sat there, minding my own business. Phone in hand, doom-scrolling, trying to ignore that pub toilet smell... and then I heard it. It sounded like a snarl. I stayed very still, listening hard, when I should have been standing up, and adjusting my clothing.

It bit me! It uncoiled itself from the U-bend, launched itself out of the practically fluorescent water, and sank long fangs into my soft bits!

I'm telling you, you never use the toilet in a Local Pub.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Tuesday 19th November

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 324 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY FORTY-TWO DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

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