In The Secret Kingdom Of The Don’t-Flushers

Human civilization has long known of the existence of this strange people, gently but accurately called the Don’t-Flushers, but for centuries we have only stumbled upon their remains, never knowing, who these strange persons were, where they came from, or where they went. But at long last, this hidden and clandestine culture has been revealed, for I, Dr. Gilbert Flibberus, have entered the Kingdom of The Don’t-Flushers, returned, and lived to tell the tale.

GAINING ENTRY
It was clear to me from the moment that I began studying this curious race that finding a way into their secret land would be difficult. For many an hour I would wait patiently in the bathroom, peaking out of an empty stall, hoping to catch one in the act. But these Don’t-Flushers are so wily that it is almost a fixed law of nature that if one actively seeks a Don’t-Flusher, one will never, ever see him in action. The only option left was to imitate their behaviors and hope they would mistake me for one of their rank ranks.

Over the course of several weeks, I proceeded (with much internal repulsion) to act exactly as a Don’t-Flusher. I would use a stall, or urinal, and complete all acts one normally does when one uses a bathroom, except flushing. I did not flush. The stalls I left behind were gross, and no one wanted to use them until some unfortunate fellow came along and had to clean it up (ah, the things we do in the name of science! Sometimes we wonder, not can we, but should we?). Finally, after a long wait and several periods of doubting my methods, I succeeded. Late one night, just as I left my stall after I’d finished making another long deposit, I encountered another fellow leaving his stall at the same time. I had heard no flushing sound. Then it hit me! The Don’t-Flushers hid themselves by leaving their stalls under the cover of other people’s flushing! The fellow, who was a bit shorter than most people, and a bit pointy in the ears, noticed also that I hadn’t flushed either. He grinned, and shook my hand vigorously, almost with a wiping motion. I was in.

I followed the Don’t-Flusher out of the bathroom, to an unmarked janitorial closet at the end of a hall. He opened the door, and shut quickly as soon as I was in. All along the shelves were rolls and rolls and of toilet paper. A few were opened, and oddly hooked on the wall as if prepared for use (though there was no obvious use for them in the closet!). Then the Don’t-Flusher removed a vial of strange liquid from a small pocket unseen on his person, uncorked it, and waved it vigorously under his nose. He held it out to me, and I did the same. It was a vicious asparagus odor; I coughed and turned my head away. I nearly passed out, it had made me so light-headed. Then the Don’t-Flusher replaced the cork, tucked away the vial, and bent down, prying a large tile from the floor. Beneath was a dark, dank whole, extending to depths unseen. The little men then reached for one of the open rolls of toilet paper, yanked the end, and hopped into the hole. The roll unraveled as he fell, though I could hear no sound. I grabbed the end of another roll, and with a prayer, jumped in after him.

THE SECRET LAND
I figured as I jump the sort of impact speeds I’d be picking up, but it seemed the strange chemical I’d sniffed a bit of not only had made me light-headed, but light of body as well. I floated down the hole, and eventually hit the bottom with a gentle thump. The Don’t-Flusher had landed a few seconds after me. He pulled up a sleeve, peered at a glowing wristwatch, and looked back to me. “Mustn’t be late!” he said. “Toilets to fill, pipes to clog!” He hopped away into a hole in the wall, but I wasn’t quick enough to keep up. I did follow his trail, though, and stepped into a gloriously disturbing underground hollow.

The cavern was teeming with Don’t-Flushers, hustling and bustling about. Pipes of all sizes, lit by some nasty yellowish bioluminescence, twisted and turned across the walls and ceiling of the cavern, with many emerging straight from the ground and heading away into other corners. From entry points at ground level and on platforms throughout the place, Don’t-Flushers were hopping in and out pipes, some bearing loads of loose toilet paper, others (mostly those in the express pipes) hurrying about with crossed-legs. A giant scoreboard kept track of toilets clogged, filled, and empty, and average worldwide stinkiness of urinals. My impartiality as a scientist diminished by the minute in the place, replaced by an overwhelming desire to purchase a toilet brush and beat a Don’t-Flusher senseless, or rather, beat sense into them! But my anger spurned me forward, to a central shimmering tower of porcelain, and inside, to the chambers of the Don’t-Flusher King.

THE DON’T-FLUSHER KING
Every turn up the stairs, I fought furiously with guards, but at last I made it into the throne room – He was busy upon his throne, but was unexpectedly welcoming of a Flusher. He waved the guards away, and the doors were sealed.

He looked me in the eye, and I him. He was a fat fellow, almost as if he had half an extra intestine packed into his gut. His fingers were pudgy, and his arms jiggled when he turned the page of his newspaper or waved away a wafting puff of flatulence.

“It has been ages since we’ve been visited by a Flusher,” began the King, chuckling. All Don’t-Flushers were original Flushers, of course, but they become corrupted and find their way down here quickly once they are overcome. A few retain traces of Flusherness, but they loose those remnants quickly, traveling among the sewers to bathrooms worldwide. They grow shorter, their ears grow a little pointier, and their eyes get dark and mischevious; the clean gleam of bathrooms comes to bother them. At last they are one-hundred-percent Don’t-Flushers, visiting stalls and urinals night after night, filling toilets but never flushing, irking all you sanitary folk and increasing our own pleasure to bowl-busting levels!”

I burst forth in anger. “Your people have long been the bane of ours! Your practices are vile, unhealthy, and despicable! What possible motives could you have?!”

“You reveal yourself as a true Flusher,” said the King, “for it is not a question of motivations, but a lack thereof! Flushing takes an entire three-quarters of a second! Multiply that by the number of times you visit the john each day, that’s a whole 6 to 9 seconds! And then there’s that sound, whoosh-gurgle-gurgle-blurp! Who wants to listen that day in, day out?! Not me. And what benefits do you get from flushing a toilet? None. Why, flushing is the most common form of altruism, but altruism is always so hard! And who doesn’t get a kick out of that gross-out expression you Flushers always give when you find a toilet we’ve just finished with? That cute grimace, the “ooh-that-smells-nasty!” face! Nothing’s funnier in the world.”

I could not react; the sheer awfulness of his words was pungent and I had to hold my nose. But he continued on anyway.

“You’ve seen our secrets, Flusher, but I’m afraid that we can’t let you reveal any of them. You can either stay with us and become a Don't-Flusher, or suffer a pleasant demise in the Deadly Pile Of Poo. What will it be?”

THE HARROWING ESCAPE
He’d barely finished before I’d flung open the doors and leapt away down the stairs. There was booming cry of “After Him!” from behind me, but I didn’t stop to look. I grabbed a shovel from an unsuspecting guard on my way, and wonked a few heads until I was out of the Porcelain Tower and headed toward the holes I’d come out of. Unfortunately, the alarm had gone out faster than I’d run; the exits were sealed by malicious Don’t-Flusher soldiers. I changed course and made for one of the transport pipes. Taking a deep breath, I leapt head first into a central pipe, and was whisked a way in a fetid swirling jet.

Let us not dwell too long on the details of my journey through that unholy tube system; suffice to say that Satan himself couldn’t have done better, and the end of it … well, emerging out of handicapped toilet isn’t easy.

As soon I was out, I slammed the lid down and flushed furiously attempting to foil any followers. Once I was certain none were after me, I hurried back to my office, and told the assistants and interns there my tale.

EPILOGUE
Since then, as precautions, I have moved my office, changed my residence, altered my phone number, renamed myself and my children, given my dog a hair cut, and visited Hollywood Tans on a regular basis. Only now, after an entire year has passed, have I published the story of my misadventure.

On some days, I swear it was all a dream, but whenever I see an unflushed toilet, the memories come flooding back to me. The Don’t-Flushers are real … their odorous work is all too apparent.







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