The Story Of The Old Man Who Shat His Pants

Once upon a time, there was an old man who decided to Send A Message.

Truth be told, he wasn’t that old. Why, just last month, he got a postcard from an old schoolmate who’d gone on holiday all the way to Thailand, and the other week he read in the paper that a musician he remembered listening to Back In The Day was still playing sold-out arenas at ridiculous ticket prices. But for various reasons, the man had grown old, and now spent most of his days in his favourite chair, watching television and complaining about how the world had moved on without him. The man didn’t feel good about aging, and about all the restrictions that came with it these days; he remembered how his father had smoked, eaten whatever he wanted and worked well into his old age until he dropped dead, the way a man should. When his children pointed out to him that at least he had got to live 15 years (and counting) longer than his father, the man would gesture with his cane at his television, his refrigerator, his double-glazed windows, his fat grandchildren, his cordless telephone, his medicine cabinet and the electric wheelchair he could use for longer excursions and say, “Life? You call this life?”

Every day, a young woman from the Agency stopped by to help him with things he couldn’t handle by himself. It was rarely the same young woman for very long, but he couldn’t be bothered to tell them apart; they all had weird foreign names and didn’t speak his language very well, and all seemed to be in too much of a hurry to listen to him telling them how they should be bloody grateful they had this job and how he didn’t need their help, how his mother had cleaned other people’s homes until her back gave out and never complained… You just can’t get good help these days.

One day, the man had an idea. He had just been telling the latest young woman all about how things were back in The War while she scrubbed his kitchen floor. Not that he remembered too much of it, to be honest, he’d been very small. But he remembered how when he grew up, at least they’d had their pride. They’d all survived something together, but young people today were too pampered to understand this, they didn’t know what real suffering was. “Yes, Sir. A war. That must have been terrible,” the woman replied from somewhere inside that damn headgear she was wearing, and only after she’d left did it strike him that she was probably making fun of him.

This would not stand. For the rest of the day, he contemplated how to get back at her, how to explain that they’d built this damn country that she was living off of, how he’d grown up walking to school in the snow, eating oatmeal every morning, going to the outdoor loo even in the winter until they got proper plumbing, how his father had biked to work until he could afford a car… And then it struck him: He didn’t have to say anything. He simply had to shit himself.

Why shouldn’t he? He’d earned the right to some service, damnit, and it would certainly send a message to her and the people in charge that he wouldn’t stand for this humiliation. Sure, they’d fitted his bathroom with all sorts of contraptions to make it easier for him to use the toilet, but where was the dignity in that? At least this way, he could make sure she damn well earned her keep. So about ten minutes before she was scheduled to arrive, he sat down in his wheelchair, leaned forward, and after a few minutes of pushing, felt his bowels relax and empty a very satisfying load of wet, warm shit into his pants. With a smug smile and a loud squelch, he leaned back in his chair and sat there in his own waste, waiting for her to arrive. She was late today, at least 20 minutes, and by the time she opened the door, the smell made it pretty clear what had happened. She stared at him. “About damn time you got here,” he told her. “Look what you made me do. Get over here and clean this mess up.”

And she did, without any smart comments this time. Somehow the tiny little creature even managed to lift him up to wipe his arse; of course he could have used his cane and stood up on his own, but that was hardly his job, was it? She kept her eyes down and breathed through her mouth as she wiped shit from his arse, his balls, and his cock, as well as the seat and the floor under him, threw his clothes into the washing machine and got him dressed again. It was glorious; this must be what it was like to be rich, he thought. Only after she looked at her watch and left with a mumbled, “Well then, see you tomorrow, Sir” did he realise that she’d forgotten to vacuum, dust the shelves, wash the dishes, and make him a pot of tea like she was required to do. No doubt rushing off to spend her welfare cheque. Very well, he smiled, he could do with dirty dishes for a day, he knew how to show her what he thought of that.

The next day, he sat stewing in his own shit for 45 minutes before she turned up, which of course wasn’t acceptable, so. The day after that she actually arrived early, just as he’d shat himself, which somehow disappointed him, so. After that, he made a routine of it; drank a lot in the morning so he’d piss himself as well, creating a nice gooey mix that he could really grind his bum into and make sure it stuck to all those hard-to-reach spots. After about a week, the girl was replaced with another girl, and then another. Most of them didn’t say much; he could tell by their faces that they knew who was in charge. If they did fail to show proper respect, he was only too happy to call the Agency and have them fired — he was the one paying for it, after all, he had rights.

Eventually he stopped trying to follow the Agency’s schedule and just shat himself whenever he felt like it, so he would wind up sitting there for hours with shit cooling on his buttocks and a large brown stain spreading under him. It wasn’t all fun and games, mind; apart from the fact that everything he ate tasted like, well, crap, he also developed a nasty rash on his arse and his balls, which was actually rather painful. His children stopped visiting him — good riddance to them — and he was pretty sure the hardwood floor was beyond rescue. But he took heart in the fact that unlike the kids of today, he knew the value of making sacrifices. And sure, the Agency’s schedules kept getting tighter and he almost never got a fresh pot of tea anymore, but at least he had his pride and his dignity, he thought as he sat there with loose, brown shit slowly running down his legs and pooling around his slippers, listening to the buzzing of the flies, and breathing in deep. The smell, somehow, reminded him of the good old days, back in The War. “That showed’em,” he said out loud to himself.

And he lived happily ever after. Which is more than you could say for his fat grandchildren.