"... the next time you go to pickup tickets you call up that movie phone thing. We would have the tickets like this," the redheaded woman snapped her fingers in front of her male companion's face. Her pale forehead all scrunched, forming several lines indicating her restless temperament. The man, equally pale-faced, stood a foot above her and just listened to her wrath. He was expressionless, as if he had heard this woman berate him before and he knew to let her rant, and rant she did. She paused for affect, snapped her fingers again and continued, "Like this. I am sick and tired of going out and waiting for something that we don't have to wait for. Is it unreasonable to ask you to plan-ahead just for once? We've been out here in this heat for almost an hour now. Henry, I expect you to..."

Ron Hampkin had been listening to the woman attack the stoic man for the entire length of time he was out here waiting. Most of that time, he felt the super-sized Dew he purchased at Taco Bell pushing at his bladder. Coming out to purchase tickets to the sneak preview of the new "Antman" movie, he made a side trip to eat some food. Commercial after commercial enticed Ron's better sensibility to eat the tasty Bellbeefer wrap. Of course, he had to get the combo with two of them and a 32-ounce cup of the heavy caffeinated drink. Ron was often weak to the allure of fast food, now as he wiggled in line, he felt a new stir within. The Bellbeefer was calling out to him.

On the demands of his friends, he'd been sent to wait in line early to purchase the tickets for all of them. It was no big deal. Ron had done it in the past. Despite the protests of the woman, tickets for this special engagement were only available on the day. It was typical of any big movie release, the first day was a midnight showing only and it was first come first serve. He got to the theatre at 10:30pm, but there was all ready a lengthy crowd, but Ron slid right into line and waited. Unlike most of the other people, waiting, he was alone. He was hesitant to take a chance on a stranger and leave the line to use the restroom, so he gutted it out. It didn't take long before he felt the first of many urinary thrusts hit his groin area. He battled each one as they came, and they slipped away slowly freeing him temporarily from his torment. This inner wrestling match with his bladder soon took a horrible turn.

The hay fever season with its escalating pollen counts was causing Ron to have horrible sneezing fits from time to time. When he felt the overwhelming desire to sneeze again, he took out his handkerchief and let it fly. As did so, he felt a trickle of urine escape him and he clenched himself immediately and stopped the release. As usual, Ron was going commando, and only had the pleated khaki shorts on to absorb his mistake. He felt another sneeze coming and he quelled it with a squeeze of the nose. He thought he had heard someone behind him say, "God bless you," but he ignored it to deal with the shame of the moment. He was wearing a polo shirt that luckily extended farther than his crotch, but Ron couldn't help feel the wetness against his penis. He wanted to look, but he dared not to, hoping no one would notice for the rest of the evening. He planned to buy something at the concession stand that would cover his lap once he took his seat in the theatre.

He waited patiently for his friends to show up, but as each passing minute came and went, he had to go the bathroom more-and-more. He was shifting side-to-side, moving up and down on his tippy-toes and found himself crossing his legs as if this would make the horrible throbbing desire go away. It didn't to Ron's regret, but he kept the dance going until he heard his stomach rumble in a sickening tone. Then he felt the world freeze. He took stock of the noise. What was it? Did it mean something bad was coming? Ron heard it again, louder than the first time. He looked around and smiled as he made eye contact with the others in the movie line. Could they have heard it too, he thought. Then he was reminded once more of his bladder's need for relief. As he clenched he felt his stomach kick a little, and was revolted by the feeling that now he had to go in both directions. It came from nowhere, suddenly, like a lightening bolt from the sky; he knew it would be difficult to contain this new onslaught from his intestines. The Bellbeefer wanted out, and it wanted out now.

Afraid to unclench his lower half, Ron realized he was short of breath and exhaled slowly. He was holding his breath in unconsciously. As he let the air escape, he found himself unclenching. Everything was fine again. At least Ron felt better, even if he knew it was time to abandon the line and seek refuge in the theatre bathroom. This would've been a good time to get on the cell phone to see if his friends were near, but of course, he hated those little annoying devices. The people who use those never realize that it is annoying to talk in public and it doesn't seem they care where they are. Ron in his infinite wisdom never got one. For the first time he regretted that decision. He spent the next ten minutes sweating, clenching and listening to his stomach grumble its discontent. Then he turned to the couple behind him.

"Excuse me," Ron began, "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind holding my spot so I could use the bathroom?"

"No problem dude," responded the young man in his "Hand over the Chicken" t-shirt that displayed some angry farm animals with rakes talking to a farmer ready to butcher a helpless chicken. His young lady companion, unlike the redhead in front of him was quiet at the guy's side.

"Thanks," Ron explained, "my friends haven't arrived yet, and I can't wait any longer."

"Hey," the man said holding up his hand, "go have at it man, I completely understand. Totally got your spot for you."

Ron smiled and trotted off, he felt like he had all the time in the world to make it. He went to the theatre door and told the pimply kid in the maroon jacket and black slacks standing in his way that he needed to use the bathroom. After a few seconds to absorb this surprising dilemma, the boy let him in and pointed out the lobby facilities to his right. The kid immediately went back to his teenage daydreams until an older pimply boy, who was his boss, called him away.

Within sight of the men's restroom he felt his stomach give a sickening squeal and felt the urge to clench his buttocks to be a paramount event and he stood still unable to move an inch. He stopped breathing again and held his ground until the wave dissipated.

"No," he muttered to himself and to the almighty, "please God let me make it to the bathroom, it's only a few steps away." Gritting his teeth he took a step. Too fearful to unclench his ass cheeks, he walked as if he were stiff as a board. Ron took slow methodical steps, each one more precious than the last. There was a small maze-like hallway leading to the bathroom door. Every step became tedious. A man exited the bathroom as he was in front of the door and he had trouble getting out of the way, sidestepping to his right to let him by. His stomach made another disagreeable plea for attention, and Ron hustled through the door in a frenzied shuffle. Eight stalls and a dozen urinals filled the megaplex's huge bathroom. Ron opened the door of the first one, but he immediately saw it was handicapped and he moved to the next one, but it was occupied. He skipped the third one and found fourth one occupied as well. Trying to get a little distance between the other patrons, he took the 6th stall, but the seat was covered in pee. The 7th was sloppy too, and the last one was good enough to go in so he did.

The stall door opened inside and was hard to close without practically rubbing his ass against the bowl itself, something that disgusted Ron's germaphobic mind. He heard his stomach growl like a trapped chimp under an elephant's foot. Ron realized that time was of the essence, and he couldn't hold back the inevitable rush that was destined to escape his body. He looked towards the toilet paper and his grief turned to dismay when he saw that the stall had the "Giant Roll of TP". An expression his friends had used to describe the worst toilet paper in the history of toilet paper. There was no perforation, there was no easy dispensing unit, and worst of all, it broke at the slightest tug of the fingers. Under no circumstances would a person sit on a germ infested toilet seat that could've been occupied by the worst of arses in the world. Ron couldn't do it, there had to be at least two layers of protection between his ass and the seat itself. First of course, the seat had to be cleaned, then the layering, and once every nook and cranny was covered substantially, only then would Ron's buttocks engage in his duty. It was the worst possible scenario to face - a person in serious potty need.

Here was Ron, focused on sealing the backdoor until he was good-and-ready. He was running out of time, and he had to deal with cleaning and covering the seat. To his heart's delight, he saw over the toilet a toilet-seat cover dispenser. He pulled at the toilet paper to clean the seat and begin his transaction. Yet as he feared, the "Giant Roll of TP" had little give and as he tugged, a small piece - thinner than a piece of scotch tape, yet rougher than a piece of dried callus skin - broke off from the roll. He tried again-and-again each time trying to outmaneuver the roll dispenser to release a bigger slice and only getting a marginally better piece. Once he gathered enough of the paper, he cleaned the seat. Yet, the seat shifted as he did so. It barely would stay in place as he cleaned. It was the toilet stall from Hell, Ron thought.

He had no choice but to accept his fate and wiped the seat top and inner frame and the section in between the seat. Ron had always wondered why there was a space there. No one knew, but it was always there in men's restrooms, yet never once in someone's house bathroom. Once Ron had the seat cleaned to his satisfaction, he reached for the seat cover dispenser. He wanted one, but he pulled out three. Trying to put the other two back, his stomach rang the fire alarm again and he just let the other covers stick out of the dispenser. Ron was running out of time and he was desperate to finish his toilet ritual and sit.

As was the tradition in toilet bowl seat covers, the hole was sealed and needed separating. This was no easy stroll through the woods either. One fast tug could break the ring, so a slow approach was necessary. He saw the linkage in three places, and even with this knowledge he had trouble keeping the cover whole. Ripping the first section was easy enough; Ron found the second one a little resistant and caused a longer tear than he had wanted. Taking his hands on both sides of the last section, he tore it free and the toilet-bowl hole cover was complete in its glory. As he laid down the cover in its proper position another anxious wave hit his stomach. His shaky hands flew free of the cover too early and it slid off the seat and into the toilet water.

You bastard, Ron voiced to himself in nervous anger. He returned one of the previous sheets to his hands and worked this one better than the last until the hole flap was dangling once more. He dealt with the urge of releasing his bowels right there and then and gently got the seat cover down safely. The seat cover, like most seat covers, only marginally covered the bowl as gravity from the flap pulled it down into the water, so a layer of toilet tissue must be laid on top of the cover to hold it down and to cover the remaining porcelain territory. The process defeated the whole seat cover to begin with, but covering the seat with the roll by itself was hard enough because the tissue was too narrow and took too long to satisfy Ron's germaphobic mind. Gulping, Ron returned to the "Giant Roll of TP" and used one hand under the roll to roll it instead of pulling it. He found it hard to do this without difficulty because he couldn't bend over too well while his ass cheeks were clamped as they were. Grunting with every single movement he made in the grip of his bathroom chaos, Ron laid the longer strands of paper onto the bowl covering and anywhere he saw the white of the seat showing. It was quite frustrating to Ron because the thin, narrow paper did very little in covering anything. Not to mention that it kept ripping before he was sufficiently satisfied with its length.

Another serious attack from Ron's innards froze the 25-year old man in his tracks. He had zero time to waste, so he unzipped his shorts nervously down and let them fall to his ankles. This was something he didn't like to do because who knows what was lying on the floor of the bathroom, but he had no time to think such thoughts now. The mission was nearly complete. He shifted his feet around and into position facing the stall door. He felt like a parachutist after his first cord failed to release the chute. He just had to have confidence that as he sat, the release didn't hit sooner than expected. The chute would only open after he was ready and in place, yet the world became a terrible place for Ron. Even with all the hard work he had done, mother-nature hit him square in the nose, and he sneezed on the moment of descent.

Like a cork released from a shaken champagne bottle, the flow of bellbeefer escaped Ron like a hot volcano. At that exact moment, his instinct told him to sit immediately, and he flopped down on the toilet seat, it shifted loosely below him. He felt his ass slide with the seat and another flow of demons spray escaped his pit. His groin slapped the inner workings of the bowl and this nauseated him more than anything else for the briefest of seconds. Then as he succumbed to the Bellbeefer's cruel joke, the world came crashing down on Ron all at once. He felt the warm flow on his thighs, his calves, and down to his ankles in his shorts, which without looking, he knew to be decimated by the eruption. He didn't dare look, but he had to. As he shifted the seat the best he could back to its original position, he bent over. This released a little more of the Taco Bell creation and a series of gastronomic anomalies echoed with the cavern of porcelain. In Ron's mind, this had to alert any of the other bathroom users. Even if they didn't hear it, the smell rising from the heat would shock them into a hurried exit. Ron's embarrassment surrounded him like an oyster in a clamshell; he was completely immersed in it. Then like a tap on his shoulder, his penis reminded him of another obligation he had to do. The stream of urine flowed freely and with all the disgust one person could bare, he felt it rebound back against his ass.

Once he was finished, he realized it was time to assess the damages. Bending over in his position, he looked down into the mouth of disaster. There was no doubt about it his shorts were ruined. He leaned back down completely on the seat again and it shifted slightly once more. He wanted to scream out his frustrations of the moment, but he dared not to. He wanted to be invisible now, while he calculated a plan of escape. Ron considered himself a savvy person, he took to challenges and found solutions when there seemed to be none, so he took stock of the situation and he started to work it out in his mind.

First off, I am a mess. No fucking kidding Sherlock! I have no clothes other than what I have with me. Was there anything in the car? Like that matters. How are you going to get from here to the car, shit for brains? I need to focus. I should start with the things that I can control. I need to clean myself off. That should only take, ummm... two FUCKING DAYS!!! Then I can clean off the surrounding area that I soiled. How disgusting was that? Then what? I am clean, but smell from Taco Hell. The area is clean, and yet I have no shorts because there is a puddle of poo on top of it. Maybe I can clean them in the toilet water. That is too disgusting for words. You might as well write your will on toilet paper with your shit and drown yourself in it. (Shudder)

The ultimate dilemma; how do I escape in a movie theatre filled with people while wearing no pants? Sounds simple enough. Ok, once again, I clean myself and the area around me. That I can control. I can flush 10,000 times if I need to and use the water despite my revulsion against it. The water is ultimately clean I suppose. Who you trying to kid? You know that it is lying in an unclean bowl and you don't have any disinfectant to make it germ-free, do you. No. No, I don't. But I have no choice. No, you don't. So toilet bowl water it is. That might reduce my stink for the time being. I could wash my shorts in the bowl too, but it's far from a washing machine. Without my shorts, I need to have something covering myself and there is no fig leaf around. I can still try washing my shorts and see if I can get away with it after they dry. Dry? How long you going to be in this stall? What about the movie? What about your friends looking for you right now, outside? You are fucked my friend, totally fucked.

My friends are going to be pissed, but I don't really give two rat fucks about their movie tickets or the movie for that matter. If they came here earlier, they would have tickets and I wouldn't be buried in my own crap. So, fuck them.

Ron cleaned the best he could. He found to his chagrin that the tail of his shirt was also covered with his Taco Bell calamity. He stripped that off too and remained naked except for his sandals as he continued his cleanup. He wadded up the toilet tissue and wiped, and soaked up the mess. He flushed and flushed again, and did what he could do to clean everything that was messy on and around him. After a long while, he became satisfied with his efforts and determined this particular part of his problem was over. The pants and shirt were wet and nastily stained with what amounted to all the colors of brown and yellow from a crayola crayon box. No amount of flushing without soap would make it clean, and even so, he still needed the hand dryer at maximum heat for an hour. Ron didn't notice it then, but there was a towel dispenser and no air hand dryer anyway.