The Poop of Dorian Gray
It was a beautiful sunny day. The smell of lilacs wafted through the windows of the bathroom.
"Isn't it perfect," said Dorian Gray to his friends Lord Henry and Basil.
"That sure is a beautiful poop," said Lord Henry.
"To think that all my other poops will be horrible. If only I could poop perfect poops and any bad things would happen to this poop instead."
A week later Dorian bought a dodgy kebab from Sybil Vane. Rather than being sick himself, though, the poop turned into a putrid slurry.
"My gosh," said Dorian, "this poop bears the consequences of what I eat."
He got the key for the upstairs bathroom from his servant, Mrs Leaf. He scooped up the poop with a soup ladle and moved it to the secret upstairs bathroom.
Over the following years Dorian ate things that would rust an iron stomach. While his friends were squirting from both ends in Peru, Dorian was continuing to party. When he ate mind bending curries in Kolkata he suffered no ill effects. Giardia, Cholera, nothing had an effect.
Dorian would go to the upstairs bathroom to admire the fetid mess that he had dodged. This continued for 18 years.
It all happened one fateful day. James Vane, Sybil Vane's brother, came to deliver Uber Eats. He needed to use the toilet, so the servants allowed him to use the upstairs toilet. He flushed the magic poop.
There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched.
"Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.
"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.
They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.
Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily—their bolts were old.
When they entered, they found within the toilet a splendid poop of their master. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, covered with poop. The poop was chunky, bloody, sloppy, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was.
Credited to teambob
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