Opening by 
"They're coming outta the walls! They're coming outta the goddamn walls!"
Tres Culos awoke startled, at the sound of his own raving nightmare. A muffled sound that multiplied in the bottled and synthetic sounds of a dinghy seen from the inside.
Where the hell was he?
Around him, a blue claustrophobic hell jolted convulsively, smashing him repeatedly against plastic walls encrusted with unspeakable miasmas.
"I was hoping that hell was more spacious and above all less shitty, in the literal sense of the term." He thought as a trail of excremental smell slapped him almost with the same physical strength of the umpteenth jolt.
Tres Culos was still too stunned and disoriented to react to that torture. He tried to faint again, but the smell did not allow it. Even the after-effects of what looked like a colossal hangover couldn't help him.
Now that he was slowly focusing on himself, he tasted something different in his mouth than the usual rancid of the after-booze. Something bitter. Something that moved jerkily.
"Yearrrrrrgghhhhhhhhhhhh!" He spat and screamed together. On the grey floor stood a cockroach still tangled in Tres Culos' saliva. The brown insect seemed to look at him scornfully as if it wanted to say "Wassup, never seen a roach?" If it had a small arm, it would surely have shaken his fist as a challenge to the wide-eyed Tortillas De Pelo bass player.
"Mum, there's a screaming toilet!" On the sidewalk of Allerton Avenue, a child tried to interfere in the conversation between his mother and the neighbour with the only result of receiving a frowning look.
For Tres Culos, the revelation took place progressively, triggered by the irreverent attitude of the cockroach. The bassist's eyes slowly moved from the insect to the wall ahead of him. On the blue-spotted plastic stood an inverted heart that could very well be interpreted as a bum: he knew that sign. A ubiquitous symbol in all rock festivals in which he had participated.
The brand of the renowned Montezuma porta-potties. He was imprisoned inside a fucking chemical bath.
He tried to open the door. He tried to undermine, crack, push his shoulder against the bloody door, but there was nothing to be done. At the umpteenth jolt, another moment of awareness struck him: the door would not open because it was pressed against other toilets, all piled above a van in movement.
He screamed asking for help until almost vomiting. And it was between one gagging and the other that he heard a guitar riff coming weakly through the wall. His beady eyes widened as his already fine lips blanched and stretched out in surprise.
"Machete is that you! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"Hi Tres, did you hear this riff?" Answered the unmistakable voice of the Tortillas guitarist.
"Machete are you telling me that while we die slowly because of the shitty smells, your only idea is to play? And then, for God's sake, why were you in a toilet with the guitar? "
The presence of the guitarist made his hypothesis of an accidental post-concert kidnapping unlikely.
"Très .." The guitarist continued complaining "There's very little we can do. Have you ever heard of the legend of the Masonic porta-potties association?"
"If there was Mendoza, he would take us out with one of his plans." Tres Culos thought desperately.
"This guitar riff is really cool. If only there was Tìo Billy, I would ask him to follow me with the drums." Machete thought.
My Ending
A rhythmic slam of rubber boot sole against plastic wall cracked through the toilet stack, a voice hollering over the racket.
“Someone call for a beat?”
“Tio!!”
For a moment, the three were assured by the collective nature of their predicament, and broke out in a spontaneous shit-rock jam session, until after entranced minutes, Machete’s strings echoed with only the memory of reverberation.
“Dude!!” Tio called out, still caught up in what sounded like body slamming the beat against the door. “What happened Chetie, was just getting into the zone!”
“Nahh, I can’t, not the same without Mendoza man!”
Tres cursed inwardly, they were trapped in porta-potties, being bumped and jumped across god-knows how many miles, and the only thing putting these guys off was wistfully missing Mendoza. Keeping the band on track was like trying to organise a feline fashion show in catnip gardens, with a sigh, Tres tried again.
“Let’s take stock, what we got, i’m looking at a crusty blue Montezuma porta-bog, fucking plastered with faeces, i’d say this has been at a 7 day-er, at the least.”
“Easy man easy man, whatever festival these things were at, must’ve been off the hook!”
Tio’s words brought a slow memory back to Tres… off the hook… they had trying to been get off the hook for something. At this point in his life Tres was more than used to the constant scream in his eardrums, the unheard symphony of a thousand tiny deaths, played on repeat just for him, but it was particularly deafening today.
“Were we… were we playing at this festival?”
“Jeez you guys are slower than a gig at a seniors centre…” Machete chipped in, not aware of the inaccuracy of his parallel.
“...we were headlining you fuck wits! Even got approached to book another gig!”
“Chetie… what the fuck is going on?”
“You know the legend of Masonic porta-potties association right?”
Tres felt a quiver of exasperation.
“Is this really the time for old rock myths?”
“It’s not a myth man, nahh, this shits legit, see? Woah man, you feeling this?”
Only then Tres began to realise the true cause of his communications problems, the Tortillas De Pelo has dropped more pills than a pharmacist with the shakes, to say their drug tolerance was above average would be a massive understatement, but jenkem, now that’s a whole something else.
The fermented waste, left to bake in the hot plastic ovens, had broken down, filling each cubicle with the delectable fumes of delirium.
Tres stared at the crusted, splodged wall, not quite enough of the plastic blue visible for it to be described as such. The surface pulsated, the shitty smears forming a wide open mouth ready to engulf him.
A swinging sensation flung Tres against the moist, cloy wall, a half-distintergrated bit of tissue sticking to his cheek, as he felt a degree of weightlessness followed by a jarring thud.
“Fucking mooooooovin’, yeah mannnn!”
Machete was clearly enjoying the ride, Tres could only imagine it was the offloading of the lorry, or possibly their lifting to the heavens by an omnipotent shitgod, it was getting hard to tell.
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the surreal confusion.
“How was the trip boys? We have a gig to get on with!”
“Mendoza! We’re fucking stuck in here! The doors are locked from the outside!” The relief was audible in Tres’s voice.
“They ain’t locked, Masonic porta-potties association, just gotta grip it right for the doors to open.”
A bit on the over side, 582. I didn't think i'd manage one for this start but, at the cost of hand cramp, here we are, the joke about gripping the door handle right was too hard to resist. I tried to go for either the band has got wasted and agreed to the gig, just getting too high on the way to remember, or that they were at the festival and just shut themselves into the toilets and got so very high off the fumes they sat there tripping until Mendoza goes and gets them to play on stage, but mainly the first one. Let me know what you thought!
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