Have You Seen My Baseball??

6

What did you do to yourself, Brad?

Jason was currently at the bar, shouldering his way between a fat guy with a beard and a blonde girl with big tits, trying to order another round of shots.

Brad knew that he couldn’t drink any more. The alcohol had turned on him, as it has a way of doing. All it took was one negative thought to throw him into a downward spiral. He had gone from happy and crazy to hopelessly depressed in an instant. The thought of his curse had changed everything.

He knew that he couldn’t stay in the bar. Leaving Jason without notice would be fucked up, but Brad rationalized it out. If he would indeed die after he drained his lizard, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be dead, and wouldn’t have to explain himself. If Drusilla’s curse was bullshit, however, he’d just tell Jason he was really drunk and didn’t know where he went or how he got there.

Booze, everyone’s favorite scapegoat, he thought, and left the bar. He felt a little guilty about sticking Jason with the tab, but this concern seemed trivial with his life at stake. The rain that had persisted earlier in the day was gone, and it was slightly cooler outside than it had been when he had entered the bar. He found himself shivering, not because it was cold and his warmest garment was a Jaguars jersey, but because he was terrified.

He really had to go. As he walked, his belly was cramped and heavy. There was a stabbing pain in his lower back, his kidneys screaming at him to do what nature intended. His view of the world was spinning in typical drunk-goggles fashion, but it was flashing in rhythm with his heartbeat as well. Each flash was accompanied by a single thought:

Pee. Pee. Pee.

He wanted to, more than anything. He did not know what his destination was, but he walked slowly, fearing that picking up his pace would make his aching pee-hole open up involuntarily. His urge for relief was so intense that he felt like his penis might explode at any given moment.

I wonder if it would count if my dick blew up and sprayed piss everywhere.

He decided that he’d rather die; the only thing worse than death would be living without a dick.

The spinning and flashing had grown very intense, and without much warning, Brad found that he had to throw up. He looked around frantically for the most appropriate place to vomit, and found nothing that fit the bill. People were passing by him on the sidewalk, going both directions, and he wanted to get out of their way—

Before Brad could finish this thought, it was too late. A hot, chunky stream projected from his mouth, spraying the ground in front of him along with his football jersey. Fortunately, he was the only person stained by the vomit. Other pedestrians looked at him condescendingly, but got out of his way. He might have been able to avoid puking on himself if his mind wasn’t so consumed with holding the pee in. The sudden upheaval of his belly provoked a natural reaction from his bladder that sent the urine forward, almost making it spill out against his will. He flexed all the muscles in the general area of his dick and ass tight to stop the oncoming rush, and succeeded, but it hurt. Luckily, the puke came out in one short burst, and he was able to recover from it quickly.

Overwhelmed by how close he might have come to death at that moment, Brad remained still on the sidewalk, hunched over with his hands on his thighs. People continued to give him a wide berth as they approached, occasionally throwing him a derogatory comment. Brad barely noticed, they came in like an out-of-range radio station.

Once he felt he was under a loose form of control, Brad looked up and found that his walk had brought him to a familiar location: the spiraling shape was across the street from where he stood. He stared at it for a timeless moment, the urge to pee temporarily gone. The spiral seemed a hundred feet tall, staring at him as he stared back.

It’s a standoff, he thought. Then he knew what he wanted to do: it seemed everything had come full-circle, and if he was going to die, it would happen in the very place that his troubles had begun. He crossed the street, and began to ascend the spiral.

It was dark, and the pathway leading to the top was empty. The walk was long and brutal; going uphill made the urge to relieve himself more intense than ever. When he reached the top, he picked out a section of the landing that overlooked Friendship Fountain and walked over to it. A concrete bench lined the circumference of the roof, and he stepped up onto it. The fountain was presently inactive. Beyond, he saw St. John’s River, and the skyline with which he was so familiar.

“This is the last time I’ll ever see this,” he thought with a grave certainty. Then he stepped up from the bench to the spiral’s topmost border, which provided him just enough concrete to get a steady footing.

Despite the amount of alcohol he had consumed, he felt quite sober now, and for the second time in two days, he realized how situations of great intensity had the ability to override the effects of any drug. As he stepped to the spiral’s top, he lost his balance, but when he regained it, he felt steady. His feet were spread apart almost shoulder-width, which seemed to provide him with a decent center of gravity. A gentle wind was blowing toward him. If the wind keeps blowing, it’s going to make me piss on myself, he thought. He wrote this off as no great loss, though. His front was already spattered with drying vomit, and he was going to be dead soon anyway, so what did it matter? He’d heard that when you die, you piss and shit yourself anyway, so worrying about the wind blowing his own pee back on him seemed like a wasted action.

Resigning to whatever fate may lay before him, Bradley James Turlington unzipped his pants, and pulled his pecker out. He was as prepared to meet the reaper as he guessed he ever would be. And as he stood on top of the spiral, overlooking his home city, the damndest thing happened: he couldn’t pee. It hurt, and he wanted to—needed to, but he couldn’t get the flow started.

“Fucking hell, can’t we just get this over with?” he yelled into the night. For several minutes, he struggled to get the pee flowing, focusing all of his will on this one simple task. His eyes were closed in deep concentration.

What’s the matter, Bradley? Stage fright?

That voice. He had only heard it on one occasion, yet he knew its owner instantly. It was a girl’s voice, and of course, it was speaking to him from inside his head. And as if her voice had commanded it, he began to pee.

It started as a broken trickle, slowly escalating into a flowing stream. At first, it hurt beyond words, but this was replaced by pure liberation, better than any sex he’d had. He surrendered to the feeling.

Just go with the flow, he thought, and laughed, making the exiting pee do a side-to-side number. No turning back now, Brad thought. As he peed over the spiral’s edge, he turned his head around, knowing Drusilla would be standing there, watching.

And there she was, standing just a few feet behind him and off to the right so that he did not have to turn far to see her. She was wearing all black again, which was probably why Brad hadn’t noticed her when he reached the spiral’s roof. That, and the fact that he had to pee so bad that he probably wouldn’t have noticed a raver doing a lightshow.

“Why did you do this to me?” Brad asked her.

Drusilla giggled. “Do? What do you mean, ‘do?’”

The stream of urine flooding from his Johnson sped up for a moment as he yelled his response at her. “You know what I mean!”

“Do you remember what you thought when you first saw me, Bradley? Think about it.”

Brad couldn’t pee, talk to this fat fucking bitch, and recall what was now a distant memory all at the same time. He had no answer, but didn’t need one. Drusilla was way ahead of him.

“There! There it is! You did it again, Bradley! When you and your buddy first saw me, the first thought that went through your head was fat bitch. Before you even had a chance to know me, you had already made up your mind about me. I can read people’s thoughts, Bradley, as you’re quite aware. And I get “fat” all the time, let’s face it; I’m a big girl. People think what they see when they look at me. But bitch? You fucking asshole, why would you make that judgment about me without even talking to me?”

Brad’s urine was now shooting out of his penis like a fire hose. He realized he had no response to her; she had pegged him: he was an asshole. Not that there was any time left to change his ways.

“And to make things worse, you knew I was psychic! I was in your fucking brain, you piece of shit! And to look cool in front of your dumbass friend, you looked me in the eyes and lied to me! I was telling you truths about your life and you looked right back at me and told me I was wrong.”

“Okay, okay, I’m a shitty person, I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll change. I’ll be a better person from now on, I swear to you, God, my parents, anyone, just please take this curse off me!”

Drusilla giggled in that high-pitched fairy voice he had quickly grown to hate. “Oh, Bradley. I didn’t curse you.”

“Huh?” he asked, twisting his head around. His peeing stopped for a moment, and then resumed its previous course of action.

“No, I’m just a psychic, Bradley. I’m not a witchdoctor, or anything like that. I can’t put curses on people. You could have peed the whole time.”

“So you just did this to fuck with me?” After he asked this, he realized he had been peeing for a very long time; it had to be a world record.

“No… I just knew you wouldn’t pee,” she said. “I saw your future. I saw that you were going to die after you finished peeing, that’s all. Not because I cursed you, but because that’s just when your life ends.”

Brad looked at her with disbelief. The thought arose in his mind that she was going to push him off the edge when he was done peeing, and he wasn’t going to let that happen. “You’re still fucking with me. You get the fuck away from me, right now, do you hear me? Don’t you come near me!”

He thought she would resist, and if she did, he would just hop off the spiral’s wall and run past her before she could make her move. But to his surprise, she backed away.

“Don’t worry, Bradley. I’m not going to push you.” She continued to back off, until he could only see the white of her pale face, then only a small white sliver, then darkness.

Suddenly, Friendship Fountain started up, startling him so bad that he jumped.

But he maintained his balance, and continued to pee. Then he began to laugh crazily, seeing what had just happened for what it was.

“HA! I BEAT YOU, YOU FAT FUCKING BITCH!”

He knew he was “supposed” to die when the fountains came on. It was supposed to scare him bad enough that he would lose his balance and fall to his death. But he had regained his balance, and won the game. Relieved, he returned his gaze to the fountain, relishing its bursts of water with an appreciation that he had never had before. He guessed he should thank Drusilla; the terror he had been through had given him a new outlook on life. He decided that from now on, he would focus on the little things, stopping to smell the roses more often. Geysers of water continued to plume high into the air, the fountain’s colored lights decorating the bursts in yellows, greens, and purples. Brad continued to laugh as the intensity of his peeing gradually tapered off. When it had waned to a slow trickle of drops, the voice spoke in his head once more.

I’m glad you learned your lesson, Bradley.

He turned his head again, and didn’t see her. She had receded into the shadows, but was apparently still well within thought-sending range.

But it doesn’t matter, she continued. You didn’t win anything, Bradley. You’re still going to die.

He returned his attention to his penis, writing off Drusilla’s taunts as empty threats, and began to shake off. As he returned his member from whence it came, he began to turn around, intending to step off the wall and back onto the spiral’s roof. But as he moved his right leg behind him, it caught mid-turn. Alarms went of in his mind and he looked down at his feet as his balance failed him.

He saw that his shoelaces had been tied together. The bitch must have done it while he was trying to pee.

In his head, he heard Drusilla’s giggling, and he was unable to stop the momentum of what had started. As the shoelace caught his foot, he tumbled backwards over the spiral’s edge, the crown of his head leading the dive. Seconds later, his head struck the spiral’s concrete walkway, breaking his neck and killing him instantly.

A little filler before next week’s finale.

5

After his dream, Brad lay awake in his bed, alternately watching his fan turn and watching the minutes change on his alarm clock. He had tossed and turned for the past three hours, afraid to sleep. It was now nine in the morning, and Brad really wanted to take a leak. It wasn’t bad by any means, he’d had much worse (a few concerts where he had gotten heroically drunk and ended up stuck in a line of cars exiting the venue came to mind), but it had progressed to a point where under normal circumstances, he’d piss and be done with it. One thing had become clear to him, though: he’d have to do something to get his mind off his bladder.

As if sensing his turmoil, Jason knocked on his door.

At first Brad didn’t answer. He thought maybe Jason would just go away. He knew better than that; Jason wasn’t the go away type. Jason knocked again, this time more obnoxiously.

“Get up, man, we gotta get going!”

Going? Brad thought. Where are we going?

“Come on, dude, you’ve been in your room jacking it since yesterday afternoon. It’s not healthy. Now get up and answer the fucking door!”

“Okay!” Brad resigned. “I’m getting up, just quit banging on the fucking door!”

Jason was one of those people you just can’t tell not to do something. He started knocking louder and faster, making Brad pick up his pace. He opened his door and even after this, Jason continued to beat on it.

“Don’t like that do ya?” Jason asked, wearing a loopy grin, which dropped off his face right after he got a look at Brad. “Dude. You look like shit!”

Seeing as Brad hadn’t left his bed in a day and a half, he imagined he probably did. His mouth tasted like ass, his body smelled like ass, and his hair was sticking up in random places like weeds. He touched a patch of hair that stood up on the crown of his head, amazed at how stiff it felt. He squinted as his continued to touch it; it actually hurt. Looking at his roommate, he asked where they were going.

“Dude, it’s Sunday! What the hell do you mean ‘where are we going?’”

Brad shook his head, unable to come up with an answer as to what in the fuck Jason was talking about. Then Jason pulled out two tickets from behind his back, shoving one into Brad’s chest. This jogged Brad’s memory, and a smile grew on his face.

“Get your jersey on, man, we gotta get going,” Jason said.

Brad looked at the ticket to see whom the Jaguars were playing.

“Tennessee,” he said.

“Fuckin A’, dude. We’re gonna fuck them in their inbred asses!” Jason said.

Brad marveled at Jason’s ability to make something gay out of anything, then walked back to his nightstand and set the ticket down. “Alright, just give me a few minutes. I need to get a shower.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “You really do. Hurry up though, we need to get a couple beers in us before the game.”

“Yeah,” Brad replied, not sure how he was going to inform his roommate that he wasn’t going to be drinking any beer today.
After the shower, Brad felt revived. He thought about how amazing it was that something so simple as cleaning your body can change the way you feel. He felt like he had his bladder under control, and had a feeling that this football game would get his mind off his problem for at least a little while. He threw on some jeans and his Leftwich jersey, and for the first time in what felt like days, exited his bedroom.

He found Jason in the living room with a can of beer and a knife.

“Just in time to cut a beer,” Jason said.

“Not right now,” Brad replied.

Jason looked at Brad like he was an asshole. “Whatever, man,” he said, and cut a hole in his beer, pulled the tab, and sucked it down. When he removed the can from his mouth, his lower lip was bleeding.

“Looks like you need your mom to cut your beer for you,” Brad said.

“Fuck you,” Jason snapped, throwing his beer in the trash. He was visibly displeased with Brad’s lack of involvement in his alcohol consumption.

This quickly passed, and the two friends soon found themselves at Alltel Stadium amongst a huge crowd of rabid fans. Jason had put away three more beers as Brad drove them there. It was actually working out well; Brad drove, Jason drank. It was a win-win situation.

It turned out Byron Leftwich didn’t start, nor was he even in uniform. David Garrard was taking over quarterback duties today, which was fine with Brad and Jason; Garrard had led the Jaguars to a 13-6 victory against the Eagles the previous week. Tennessee posed no threat in their eyes.

This feeling was quickly justified, as the score was 20 to nothing at halftime. By this point the crowd was insane. It was also raining, which only fueled the fever in the air. Brad’s adrenaline was pumping, and had already screamed himself horse. He was having such a good time that he decided there was no choice in the matter:

“I must have a beer!” he screamed to no one in particular, which was fine, as no one in particular was listening. He pushed his way past the fans and spent as much on a 24-ounce draft as he would have on a six-pack of imported beer at a gas station.

A voice protested in his mind. If you drink you’ll have to pee! And if you pee, you’ll die!

He told that voice to shut the hell up. With the adrenaline rush he was on, he felt like he could hold his piss forever. And a voice further back told him it didn’t matter, he’d have to pee anyway, and what better way to go than partying while his football team dismantled a team they considered division rivals only a few seasons ago.

As Brad reached for his wallet, he made a quick decision. “Better make it two beers,” he told the cashier. “I’m fuckin’ thirsty.”

Brad made his way back to his seat, which was in the nosebleed section, but it didn’t matter because he was a fan, and he was there, and that was all that mattered.

“Hell yeah, motherfucker!” Jason screamed hoarsely, seeing Brad’s two beers. “You brought be a beer, I fucking love you, man!”

Brad laughed. “These are my beers, you queer. Get your own.”

Jason hugged Brad, as a father would hug a son who had done something to make him proud. “Good to see your vagina stopped bleeding,” he said.

The Jaguars continued to dominate. It was looking like they were going to shut out Tennessee until Vince Young threw a 32-yard touchdown pass in the 4^th quarter. This was too little too late, however, the game was well out of reach at this point. The final score was 37-7, Jacksonville fulfilling Jason’s prophecy of ass-raping their opponents. By the game’s end, Brad had consumed 4 24-ounce beers, and there was no telling how many Jason had put down. One thing was certain, though: they were both hammered. Brad’s fears about death were completely gone, now, as was any need to break the proverbial seal. The adrenaline was still going strong, and the two boys decided to keep the party going after the game. They made their way to a bar downtown (not knowing of the name of the one they stopped in and too drunk to be picky about it), and kept the beer flowing, adding shots into the mix. There were Jaguars jerseys all over the place, and it seemed the whole city was in an uproar. Brad and Jason were no longer their individual selves, they had successfully become one with the celebratory atmosphere.

Several hours passed without notice, and soon it was dark. Brad was belligerent at this point, and the adrenaline rush finally began to taper off. At that point, Brad found that he had to pee, and his attitude changed abruptly, like someone flipping off a light switch.

I’d like to say something real quick. Sometimes when you write, things happen in your story that you don’t expect. That’s what it’s all about, in my opinion. And that’s what happened for about 3/4 of this, the 4^th installment of “The Long Pee.” Enjoy.

4

Several hours later, Brad was still in his bed. He hadn’t followed any of Megan’s ideas. He was too scared to follow any ideas. Brad wasn’t interested in experiencing any thrills before his life was over. Perhaps if someone had given him some kind of deadline, like ‘you have one week left to live,’ he would approach things differently, but his current circumstances were hard to predict. When would he have to pee again? It was a hard question to answer. He could pee right now if he wanted to. Although he had had nothing to drink since his encounter with Drusilla, there was definitely something swishing around in his bladder.

No, thrill-seeking was out. Instead, Brad decided that he would just try and stay alive as long as possible. Any activity that he could think of would increase his need to relieve himself. Not only that, eating would make things worse, and drinking… God forbid.

So, Brad resolved that he would stay in his bed, exerting as little energy as possible, and wait until the next time he had to pee. It was the only safe thing he could do. Sure, it was boring, but he began to think of it as a test of will.

He had been in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. His hangover was gone, but he still felt shitty because he had provided his body with no sustenance. His stomach was begging him to put something in it. It felt like it might eat itself before long. His throat was completely dry. Swallowing took considerable effort, and whenever he managed to do it, it hurt. His lips were chapped to the point of cracking in a few places, covering them with little fault-lines.

He knew these things, registered them as uncomfortable, but they were far away. He had been practicing his Zen for the last three hours or so, and had become quite adept at it. He started off counting his breaths, starting at one hundred and moving toward zero. Any time a conscious thought, such as I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, or, I’m horny, popped into his brain, he started over. At first, he didn’t make it very far, but after about an hour, he had counted down to fifty. He had just now reached zero.

Let’s drink to celebrate! he thought sarcastically.

All of this mental exercise had made Brad sleepy. He looked at his clock, not able to remember the last time he had done so, and was surprised to see that it was ten o’clock already. He had not been bothered by the outside world since Megan had left. He was thankful for that; he didn’t feel like dealing with anyone right now. All he was interested in was not peeing. After Megan left, he had turned his cell phone off, so as not to be disturbed by that avenue either.

Ten o’clock, he thought. I guess I could justify going to sleep now. It’s late and I’ve been flexing my mental muscles for a long damn time.

Brad rolled over on his side and put an arm under his pillow, as he always did when beginning his shutting-down process. Now that he had stopped blocking his thoughts, a chaotic dialog began to flood his brain. The thoughts were racing, but Brad ignored them, continuing to do so until he crossed that subtle line that divided awake fro m asleep.

His dream started out in a familiar setting; Brad was in a bar with a couple of friends. His mom was also there, which was odd, because she didn’t drink. She didn’t approve of him going to bars either.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” he asked. She was a short, plump woman with black hair and a tendency to wear too much makeup. She looked like a little penguin with clothes on. This being a dream, all of these features were magnified.

“Tequila shots!” she said. “Drink up!”

Brad saw that he indeed had a full shot glass in front of him. It was not there a second ago, which struck him as odd, but not so odd that he recognized that he was dreaming.

Must have been there the whole time, he thought, rationalizing the irrational.

He took his shot, as did his mom. Jason was there, too, and so was Nathan, who had been the size of a line-backer ever since the seventh grade. They took their shots as well.

Glasses clinked on the table, and disgusted faces were made all around.

Brad noticed that his tequila actually tasted good for some reason, like he was drinking Kool-Aid as opposed to hard liquor. This was due to dream physics, but of course, Brad didn’t know that. He just thought it was either weak tequila, or he had reached a whole new level of alcoholism.

Either way, Brad thought, and picked up a comically large beer that was now on the table in front of him. He saw that he was in a church now, with his mom and his drinking buddies. The empty shot glasses were in the pews in front of them (in the holders designated for communion glasses once they were emptied), and they were all drinking beer.

Man, church kicks ass today! Brad thought, wondering why he had ever stopped going in the first place.

Oh yeah, he thought. Because I’m an atheist. What the fuck am I doing here, then?

Before he could question things further, he was immersed in the new dream scene and had accepted it as normal.

“Hey, I got an idea,” Nathan said.

Brad new what was coming. Nathan was the competitive drunk of the group. His enthusiasm had the remarkable ability to make a really bad idea sound like a lot of fun.

“Chugging contest!” Nathan said, confirming Brad’s suspicions.

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” Jason said. “We’re in church.” Then Jason took a sip of his beer.

“Shhhh!” Brad’s mother hissed at them. “I’m listening to the sermon!”

Brad looked toward the pulpit to see what message the pastor was spewing out that had his mother so captivated.

Brad was so startled that his sleeping body almost woke up.

There was apparently a guest preacher today. It was a woman, and she was gigantic. She wore a black dress that left little to the imagination (which was unpleasant to put it mildly), and had long, curly black hair. It was Drusilla. She was spouting off something about hellfire and damnation when Brad caught her eye. She winked at him and continued on her rant.

Her speech began to grow higher in pitch and pick up speed, moving into Chipmunks territory. As her words moved faster, her already enormous body began to grow upward and outward. Her plump hands inflated like balloons, her hair grew thicker and curlier and pushed outward at an alarming rate, her breasts moved from cantaloupe-size, to watermelon-size, to beach-ball-size, to—

The words she spoke grew indecipherable and suddenly Brad knew that she was speaking in tongues. Her eyes had rolled back into her head so that only the whites shoed. He looked around and saw that people were frantic, throwing their hands up in praise. Some of the congregation was dancing. His mother had fallen to the ground. Nathan was chugging his beer. He threw his empty glass on the floor when he finished.

“Hey pussy-lips, your beer’s still full,” Nathan said.

“Ssshhh,” Brad hissed. “Listening to the sermon.” He sipped his beer casually, in case Nathan had further accusations up his sleeve.

Drusilla was now as tall as the ceiling, and fatter than the sanctuary should have been able to contain. But it seemed the space around her was growing as well, as if to accommodate her metamorphosis.

Bradley.

That voice. Where was it coming from?

Drusilla continued to rant and rave in her tongues, literally spitting fire.

Bradley, pay attention! I’m speaking to you!

Brad looked around for the source of the voice, and continued to drink his beer. No one was looking at him, let alone speaking to him. The congregation was too busy feeling the spirit. Nathan had even become part of the insanity now that he had no beer to occupy his attention.

Suddenly Brad realized that voice was not coming from anyone around him; it was speaking to him from inside his head.

That’s right, Bradley! You didn’t forget about me, did you? Or did Megan actually manage to convince you that I’m not psychic?

“Oh fuck!” Brad yelled, much louder than expected. The congregation stopped getting their praise on at once. Every eye in the sanctuary was on him. He looked around nervously. Drusilla was glaring at him from the pulpit. Only the whites of her eyes showed, but they were definitely focused on him. She did not speak aloud, but continued her mental dialogue with Brad.

How’s that beer, Bradley?

Brad looked down at his beer. It was trying to bring back some distant memory, something he wasn’t supposed to be doing… but that memory was momentarily lost.

It’s good, isn’t it? And it’s almost empty! Surely that shot and all that beer is making you a little antsy?

As if her words caused it to happen (in a way, they did), a fountain erupted behind her. It spewed water in many colors, like the one in Friendship Park.

Damn, Brad thought (it was his own voice in his head now), I really have to pee. That fountain isn’t helping.

Excusing himself, he pushed his way down the pew and made it to the aisle. His bladder was about to burst and he desperately needed to do something about it. He walked down the aisle to the back of the sanctuary, where there was a staircase leading to the balcony, and another leading to the basement—where the restrooms were located. He passed a bowl of holy water on the way out.

That’s weird… My mom’s a Presbyterian.

But seeing it made the urge to urinate that much stronger.

He went down the stairs and opened the door to the men’s room. There was a sparkling porcelain urinal with a pink cake inside it that was beckoning him.

Oh man, I can’t wait!

He ran up to the urinal and took a moment to notice that “Say No To Drugs” was printed on the rubber mat that covered the flush-hole. A phone number was listed under the slogan, and the numbers kept changing, which did not register as odd in Brad’s mind. He was too focused on emptying his bladder.

Brad unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out. He closed his eyes and pointed his head toward the ceiling. Then that sensation came, one that he had experienced thousands of times throughout his life, but this time it felt more grand and liberating than ever before. It was the feeling of his bladder opening up and starting the flow of urine through his urethra. He savored the sensation.

It was almost to his pee-hole now, and suddenly, a thought burst into his mind.

(The next time you pee, you will die as soon as you finish)

Oh fuck! Brad thought. He had forgotten all about Drusilla’s curse. How could I forget something like that? Wait, where am I? Why the fuck am I in a church, why have I been drinking? Why—

Before Brad was able to ask any more questions, he woke up and bolted upright in his bed. He was breathing heavily and was covered in sweat. His sheets were damp, and for a moment he feared that he had actually wet the bed. But it was only perspiration.

“That was so close,” he said to himself. “I almost peed in my dream… and I could feel it. I almost peed in reality, too.”

Brad looked at his clock.

Six in the morning. Man, I was really out.

I’m not safe anywhere, he realized. I can’t even sleep… I almost tricked myself into peeing. It’s more dangerous when I’m sleeping than when I’m awake!

“I think I’m fucked,” he said.