Things That Take Dumps In The Night

September 15, 2008

One morning last month I woke at four-thirty. Someone coughed. I sprang up in bed like a slice of toast and looked around. The door to my en-suite bathroom was ajar and the light was on inside. I live alone, so I was scared.

That same cough again, followed by the pained strained grunt of mild constipation. He sounded frustrated. I know this because he released a deep sigh before cursing. It was a curse in a foreign language but I could tell it was a curse. You can always tell when someone is cursing regardless of what language its in. Its in the delivery. This curse was delivered in what sounded like an eastern European language of some sort.

What do you do when an eastern European burglar breaks into your home and stops to take a dump in your en-suite? What’s the etiquette here?  Should I wait until he finishes before I call the police? Should I check that he has enough toilet paper, or something to read?

As quietly as I could, I pulled back the covers and swung my legs out onto the floor. I tip-toed across the room and stood motionless at the bathroom door. He sighed again. It was a mournful and depressed sigh. He was clearly very down about this dump. Throwing caution to the wind and gripping my lap-top computer, the only blunt object to hand, I prodded the door open and stepped inside.

Our eyes locked and we were fixed where we stood and sat. I could see a sharp and very real terror in his eyes. Surely no one ever feels as vulnerable as they do when they are confronted by a stranger while they’re on the toilet. What a great leveller it can be. If I were to meet this man under any other circumstances, it would be he that had the upper hand, me that had the terrible fear in my eyes. For this was more monster than man, more legend than reality. The man sitting on my toilet, locked in a bitter struggle with his bowels was the eponymous villain from Bram Stoker’s classic novel and all round cliché figure of evil, Count Dracula.

I instantly knew it was he. Dracula was always one of my favourite novels and somehow this man was exactly how I had always pictured him. He did not look like Gary Oldman or Bela Lugosi. Nor did he look like Christopher Lee or Leslie Neilsen or any other popular image of the famous character. He had the terrifying face that I had held in my own mind, the six times I had read the book and created my own unique visual imagery. Except now, he was here on my toilet, taking a dump at half four in the morning, not seeming half as diabolical as I had originally imagined.

“Can I help you?” was all I could manage. He paused and considered his answer carefully. He was clearly embarrassed.
“No… thank you. I won’t be much longer?” was all he could manage. I slowly backed away into the bedroom and closed the door. I crawled back into my bed and waited for him to finish. The wait was obviously too much for me as I soon drifted off. The next morning he was gone.

I know what you’re thinking, ‘It was obviously just a dream.’ well no, it wasn’t. I know this because the following night another famous vampire took a dump in my en-suite. I woke in my bed the same way as I had the night before, the toilet door ajar and the light inside casting a warm segment of yellow on my bedroom floor. A strained grunt again, but this time someone different. The voice was slightly more high-pitched, more cartoonish, more, well, racist. A loud splash followed by…
“One, ah, ah, ah.” Another troubled grunt pre-empted a second satisfying splash which in turn was followed by…
“Two, ah, ah, ah.” It appeared that Count Von Count from Sesame Street was taking a dump in my en-suite now. The next thing I knew, I was sitting upright in bed once again, covered in sweat and back in reality. Count Von Count was all a dream, and this… this was real. I wandered in to the en-suite and there he was again, Count Dracula sitting there, trousers around his ankles, concentrating hard.

Somehow, it wasn’t quite as awkward this time. He knew I posed him no threat and I knew that he just wanted to use my facilities. If he had wanted to kill me, eat me or suck my blood he would have done so after I had fallen asleep the previous night. I asked him, as politely as I could, why he was using my en-suite bathroom. He said that he wasn’t sure, but that he liked it and felt comfortable there. ‘Fair enough.’ I thought. He was friendly, polite and genuinely funny, a very charming man indeed. We talked for an hour. I had an early meeting the next morning, so I bade him goodnight, leaving an old copy of FHM for him to read. I made a joke about not doing anything else in there with the magazine. We had a laugh and I went back to bed.

Over the next couple of weeks, the Count returned nightly. I would go to bed earlier and earlier each night. Partly because I could not wait until it was time for his visit and partly because I needed to compensate for the sleep I was missing out on while we chatted. Each night I would wake and join him in the bathroom, me perched on a foot stool and him holding court on my toilet seat. He spoke to me of the world as he saw it, of politics and pop culture, of literature and love. Those nights quickly became my life. I stayed up later and later, slept in longer and longer, missed more and more work. It was all about my nightly chats with Count Dracula.

Two nights ago I woke at the usual time, the toilet door was ajar but the light was off. I felt sick. When something becomes so familiar and occurs so regularly and identically for so long, you feel ill when the pattern is broken. I turned on my bedside lamp and wandered over to the bathroom. Flicking the switch I found what I feared I would… nothing. He was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been and gone. I know this because the glass of milk and dark chocolate I had left for him hadn’t been touched and the toilet seat was stone cold. I went back to bed to await his arrival. He didn’t arrive and I didn’t sleep.

Last night I woke again at the usual time. Again the door was ajar but again the light was off. Once more I went to make sure. My heart sang as I turned on the light. The milk, half drunk, the chocolate, gone. But instead of the Count sitting on the toilet looking up at me, all that was there was a note.

The note read; ‘Dear Shane. Thank you for the use of your lavatory over the last few weeks and for your company. Both were greatly appreciated. I feel that I owe you an apology, for I fear that I was not completely truthful with you when you asked me why I was using your bathroom. You see, of late, I have been seeing someone, a lady named Valerie. She recently moved in with me and up until last month we had lived quite harmoniously together. However that is when the rows began. She became controlling and argumentative. I felt trapped and suffocated, utterly unhappy. And so I left her, packed a small bag and left my own home. The real reason that I needed to use your lavatory was simply that I had no other lavatory to use. My diet promotes regularity and I am, naturally, required to oblige. And now I must apologise once more, because I fear I was not completely honest with you at the beginning of this letter. Your company was not much appreciated, it was frankly dull and lacking in any stimulation whatsoever. The fact is that I needed your toilet and I used you to get to it. Now that I have resolved my differences with Valerie, I have moved back in and shan’t return to your pathetic en-suite. You were nothing more than a poo hole to me. Yours no more, Count Dracula.’

Needless to say I was crushed. Using someone for their toilet, it doesn’t get much more evil than that, does it?

…Not Also, But Only.


3 Responses to “Things That Take Dumps In The Night”

  1. Gaffo said

    I love it!

  2. thats pure class, so funny, man i love you, will you actually marry me?

  3. shanelangan said

    I can’t do that Alan. let’s start with a clandestine fling and take from there

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