Forehead sweaty against his knees, gripping his sides
convulsively , gasping, Joe felt his insides split and
tear, lacerated by an invisible assailant.  This wave
of cramping was even worse than the last.

Fuck me...  Joe had a vivid imagining of his torso rupturing, splitting
open, filling the bathroom with a swamp of gore sufficient to bury even
the worst slasher flick.  His mother would return home and find him
smeared across her formerly pristine facilities; black and white tiled
crispness splashed with blood, Joe's intestines cooling in a twisted
heap on the floor, toilet overflowing with his liquified innards.
The scene was so vivid that Joe nearly forgot the intensity of his
abdominal pain, so fascinating was his mother's hysterical, shriekng
reaction to his remains.

The pain struck again, shredding the mental image with a thousand razor
claws and scattering it to the wind.  The pain was blinding; it
eliminated any possibility of thought or imagination. Joe could only
double over, clutching himself, trying to keep himself from rupturing
from internal pressure.  The toilet seat pressed unnoticed into his
buttocks and thighs, soaked and sticky from the sweat of Joe's 
exertions.
       GODgodGODgodGODgodGODgodItfuckinghurtsfuckinghurtsfuckinghurts...

The cramps lessened; but only for a moment; Joe could sense the pain
gathering again, preparing for its next assault on his crippled
defenses.  

WHAT is wrong with me?  Am I fucking dying here?  Joe's digestive
tract was a gigantic snake, coiling, spitting and biting his inner
skin, tearing teeth and stinging venom.

"SHIT." Joe's breath came in tiny, ragged clumps of air as the tide
rose again.  Lights flashed before his squeezed eyes.  His heart
pounded in his ears, its tempo constantly increasing along with its
volume.
ThumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMPthump
Help	ME	help	ME	help	ME	 help	ME	help
	ME	help	ME	help	ME	 help	Me	HELP

Nearly falling from his perch in the blinding gravity of his
gastrointestinal suffering, Joe scrambled for some support.  First he
clutched at the roll of toilet paper affixed to the wall beside him.
It snapped off, tumbling away and unspooling a long paper tongue.

Slipping on the slickness of the toilet seat, he lashed out with his
feet, too lubricated with sweat to (gotta getta) grip on the bathroom
floor.

Where had those tacky pink bathmats gone?
Joe's mom's bloody pink bathmats, matching her pink terrycloth robe.
Standing serene and pristine in fuzzy pink with coffee cup in hand,
outside the door.  Are you okay, Joe?  She would call, voice grating
at high volumes, pink failing to compensate and calm.  Or maybe, you
can do it, honey, sentimental motherly supporting words and encouraging
pats on the back.  I know you can do it.

Thanks, mom, thanks a fucking hurts a lot....

Before splitting his skull on the unforgiving tiles of the bathroom
wall, Joe managed to grip the edge of the vanity.  It dug into his
hand resentfully, but stopped his fall nonetheless.  He clung to it
gratefully, his body buckling, his body tense, jaw locked to keep in
the screams that were trying to escape.

A groaning sound began inside his body, a reverberating echo, bouncing
off the writhing walls of his stomach, the coils of his intestines,
rippling in the rivers of his blood.

SHITGODItfuckinghurtsSHITSHITGodITHURTS...

Joe's bowels lurched into motion, apparently finally spurred on by the
intensity of his discomfort.  He choked, tears squeezing their way
from his crushed-closed eyelids, merging with the beads of sweat
standing on his face, fleeing hurriedly down his cheeks to hurl
themselves at the tile floor below.

Reassuring to know that some parts of his excretory anatomy still
functioned efficiently.

Gasping, flashing lights, dizziness, Joe realized he was growing faint,
probably hyperventilating.  Or forgetting to breathe.  He forced
himself to breathe regularly, holding the rhythm before him as a 
shield against the pain.

You can do it, Joe, chorus of angels with pink terrycloth wings.
Your poor (sainted if only she were dead) mother has endured so much
worse... In....Out....In....Out(fuckinghurts)In...Out...
In(rippingapartinside)In...Out...

Joe's body moaned and squealed, but he managed not to scream.
The water beneath him splashed as something fell to earth, escaping
the gaseous hell of his body.  He was a human blender; chopping and
mixing his innards, and then pouring them out in a septic frappe.
Another bubbling groan, followed by a beautiful splash, and the pain
seemed to ebb away, receding quickly from Joe, retreating into the
distance.

Good boy!  A smiling gargoyle, pink terrycloth skin, crouched beside
the toilet, nodding his mother's head, as images returned to Joe of 
his indoctrination into the Porcelain Mystery cult.

Gasping, eyes tearing, he breathed in ecstatic relief.  He remained
seated, collapsed on himself, waiting to regain some of his strength.  
I feel like I've just given birth.  To fucking Godzilla.
For a moment, Joe thought he could hear something; a tiny mewling
noise, kittenish.  He listened, staring dazedly at the plain tiles,
black and white.  A chessboard.

Again.  A small sound, pleading.  Joe blinked.  The cat?
"The cat died four months ago."  The little shit had run into the
street for the last time.  Some faceless, anonymous motorist had put
an end to Mom's precious pussycat...
 
It wasn't the cat.
Mmmrrryyyiiii....?
The sound was muffled, dripping with a watery echo.
What is that?

Joe shook his head, dazed.  It sounded like it was coming from the
watery bowl beneath him.  Startled, Joe thrust himself up, stumbling
on the shorts still clinging to his ankles.

Sewer rats, swimming up through the pipes, ready to take a chunk out
of him...
Or somebody's escaped boa constrictor.  Such things did happen, he
knew.  Joe cautiously peered into the toilet, face wrinkling
instinctively.  A thick layer of excrement, swirling, almost marbled
mingling of (surprise) shit brown and a most alarming red floated
atop the discoloured water.  No kittens, rats, snakes or anything else.

Joe shook his head.  I, he acknowledged, am fucking losing it.
Joe and his haunted toilet.  Shuddering at the bubbling mess,  Joe
wearily tugged the lever, and flushed the rancid excretions into an
unknown watery limbo.

Almost lost in the roar of the flush, Joe thought he could hear a last,
desperate mewl.

Joe forgot his pain quickly.  The tiny biosystem, cast out in
defecation into a world of endless pipes, drains, and caustic
chemical sanitizers, did not.

Shit happens, it is said.  But not without the complex operations
of the digestive system first.