Blue Inferno for Tres Culos
[The first part of the story is provided 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.
Photo by David Shankbone from Wikimedia Commons
[My ending]
The jolts followed one another for a long time, accompanied by Machete’s mismatched riffs. The situation looked like the bumper car of a carnival set up above a landfill.
"Not even when I smoked my one-week-old sock, I had such a bad trip," thought Tres Culos half-stunned by the stench. By now, when he was almost convincing himself that he was in that Cure video where they're locked in a closet that falls off the cliff and sinks into the sea - only ten cats must have used that closet as litterbox - the jolts ceased abruptly.
The unfortunate bassist found himself with his right cheek smeared against a probable concretion of fossil catarrh of the late post-hangover.
"Machete? Are you still there? "He gasped softly. An A minor answered him.
Then, with a deafening roar, the world capsized. Fragments of stratified fecal matter exploded in the narrow blue capsule, while thousand origins urine sprayed in the already stale air, and at the center of this micro-galaxy, Tres Culos was spinning up and vomiting.
Suddenly as it began, the sewer apocalypse ended, and a blade of light penetrated cruelly into the overturned chemical toilet, illuminating the bruised bassist. Quaky, Tres Culos crawled out of the door wide open.
In front of his eyes, astonished, an expanse of porta potties piled in bulk spread all over the place, all of them blue and all with the inverted heart of Montezuma. In total silence, the high-pitched sound of a shattering E string announced the exit of Machete from a nearby bathroom.
The scene came to life when the trucks turned the tipper trailers back to their horizontal position and roared away.
"Are we dead?" Machete asked.
"No, you're not, yet ..." a low, hoarse voice behind Tres Culos answered, making him jump.
The speaker was a squat man, wearing a pinstripe suit with a tie, covered with a thick rubber apron with heraldic symbols and a pair of golden rubber gloves. Brandishing a small silver scoop, the guy continued:
"You have discovered our secret, but you cannot tell it around!"
The two Tortillas realized that other guys in suits and ties, all covered with aprons and gloves, had begun to swarm like cockroaches up and down in the expanse of potties, penetrating into the torn carcasses and rummaging through the fecal entrails with silver scoops.
"Here! I told you, the Masonic conspiracy of chemical crappers!" Machete whimpered, trying to hide behind his broken-necked guitar.
"Masonic? Nonsense!" The big guy snapped. "We are the Association of Coprolite Hunters, a cultural association of researchers and collectors of ancient fecal concretions. We crave these misunderstood gems, created by the profound alchemy of the human body!"
The two Tortillas looked at each other as perplexed as the first time they had cut the “Ramones” fringes and they could finally see each other's faces.
"I mean, do you collect poop?"
"Not ordinary poop, just higher quality fossilized poop."
"And you’re gonna kill us anyway?"
"Obvious! We cannot allow you to reveal our secret to the world. Montezuma would sue us for billions! Their port potties are the most valuable deposits of coprolites, because the company allows sedimentation of the tanks longer than the others. "
The men in jackets and aprons were converging towards the two unfortunate punks, menacingly brandishing their shovels.
"Wait a minute, let's talk…" Tres Culos stammered, backing away, but his converse slid over someone's former diarrhea and knocked him to the floor.
The blow detached something hard and vaguely round from his leather jacket, where it was joined due to shaking during abduction.
The squat man picked it up and his face lit up:
"Stop everybody, coprophiliac friends! This is a rare sphenoidal fecaloma! And it’s thanks to these two if we found it! "
"So you’re not gonna kill us anymore?" Tres Culos asked desperately. "We swear that we’ll not reveal your secret to anyone."
"Of course, we’ll not kill you anymore! Now you are two of us! A finding of such an entity makes you receive by right the A.O.C.H. association card!”
He looked at the shaky battered guitar, behind which Machete still crouched, and added:
"Besides... you're musicians, aren’t you? We’re looking for a band for our annual event, none of the other members can play... "
Tres Culos wiped a layer of brown slime from his cell phone, then dialed a number.
"Mendo? I know it seems strange that I say it, but I think we have a contract... "
This is my entry for the week #45 of the awesome contest held by 
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