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Phle'gm
🕑 Added 2023-09-17 12:11:11 +0000 UTCWork Life Balance
In the stifling heat and oppressive gloom of the public toilets, Phle’gm assembled his urinal cakes. The Workhouse had branded the cakes ‘New and Improved,’ of which Phle’gm was slightly dubious. Stamped with the face of a grinning halibut and boasting ten percent more swill, the foul oily substance from which the city took its name.
Phle’gm always seemed to have the worst of it. For as long as he could remember, which was about half the time it took to really clean the swill out of your ears, he’d been cursed with bad luck. Even the Foreman had remarked on it, telling the usually inconspicuous adolescent his scars spelled out embarrassing personal secrets.
Absent-mindedly, Phle’gm picked a cake off the conveyor and gave it a chew. He had to admit, despite the recent reduction in icing, they really did taste like urinals.
Without warning, a tremendous gurgling of the pipes shook the loos. Jets of boiling steam sent Phle’gm sprawling, smacking his nose on a nearby sink. Torrents of foul liquid sprayed into his eyes, forcing his head between the hot and cold tap.
And suddenly it was over.
Wiping away the filth, Phle’gm recovered and gazed upon the cause of all the commotion, lying unashamedly in the bowl. It was a toe.
“Flipping heck.”
Opening his work coat and rummaging for a place among the severed hands, odd-shaped cigarettes, smoked fish, and rudely shaped tank shells, Phle’gm found a spot and fastened the toe among his forest of charms.
The voice of the Foreman yapped from a distant gantry.
“Phle’gm. We’ve got weirdo from the surface coming tonight. He’s apparently quite the nob, and it’s your job to show him round.”
“Maybe my luck is finally changing.” thought Phle’gm.
------
Buried within the depths of the coat, the toe wiggled.
Comments
David Greene
The play on words about urinal cakes had me rolling
