The Washroom King

Gerald entered the washroom…

The scruff and grime of three and a half weeks on the street covered his face and body. He looked around, disgusted. There were no towels. How could it be a mansion if the washrooms had no towels?

Fuck it. He’d use their quilt. Yeah, that’s right. These fuckers who pretend to make the world a better place by taking in the local homeless for the night. Who the hell did they think they were, anyway?

The shower was bigger than any he’d ever seen. Made of stone and glass, it gleamed like an iceberg in the Caribbean.

He twisted the knob and the hot spray gushed out onto the polished granite basin, filling the air with steam and damp wishes.

He glanced at the soap, and out of habit reached to pocket it, but then realized he had no pockets cause he was nude.

He admired himself in the mirror. Glancing at his manhood, he flexed. Once, twice, cracking a smile at the handsome chap in the mirror looking back at him.

And he stood there for a moment, waiting for the water to get warm, feeling the spray every few seconds. Then in he stepped and the water burst onto his body and blessed him with a robe of steam.

The mirrors fogged up, and he was lost in thought for a while. He washed and lathered and rinsed and then repeated (for good measure).

He tightened the knob and the royal stream ceased.

Then he grabbed the quilt-turned-towel and mopped the lasting wetness from his body.

It took a while, cause he was pretty wet, and the quilt was pretty old.

Patches began sticking to his skin, peeling off the quilt like damp wallpaper, or pieces of American cheese that weren’t individually wrapped.

It disgusted him, so he threw it out the window where it spread it’s great billowing arms casting a morning shadow over the front lawn before finally landing in the briar patch below.

It caught. It’s gray patches pierced by thorns.

Then, still slightly moist, Gerald pilfered the soap and defiantly walked nude through the hallway to the room he’d slept in. A lone patch with pictures of dancing bears clinging to his left buttock, then rolling off, dejectedly. He entered the room.

His clothes were gone.

They’d decided to wash them, the fuckers.

Gerald grabbed his bag, which he could have easily used as a makeshift loincloth, but chose not to. Instead, he slung it over his shoulder like a continental soldier, and padded through the house hanging low.

Everyone was gone, or so it seemed. There was the dull rumble of the washing machines and dryers billowing away down in the basement. He walked past the maid, engrossed in her copy of “The Weekly World News”, the headline reading “Jesus returns and wins big at Vegas casino!”

He walked into the grand hall, the twinkling sparkles of the great chandelier casting little dots over his just-rinsed chest hair, changing him into a bipedal Dalmatian of light.

He grasped the brass handles of the front doors and threw them open, the morning sun crashing into the crystal walls screaming “GOOD MORNING GERALD!!! For you I will vanquish any demon!”

The maid shielded her eyes and turned away from the blinding light as Gerald ventured onto the front lawn, still wet with dew. He pushed into the briar bushes, cupping a hand over his genitalia, grabbed the quilt, and draped it over his body toga-style.

The Emperor had returned, and he was hungry. Very hungry.

And with the sun crowning him with it’s halos, he strode away from the house, in search of a royal breakfast.