“One If By Land, Two If By Pee”

Gary walked out of the auditorium with his fellow employees feeling entertained and slightly uncomfortable. Co-workers came over laughing and clapping him on the back, telling him how great a job he did. He was officially the highlight of the company retreat.

So why was there a feeling of dread pouring over him like Vermont syrup on a stack of pancakes?

“What a show!” said Sid.

“That was unbelievable,” Franklin exclaimed.

“Simply incredible,” Pete replied.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Gary asked, trying to ask in the most nonchalant way possible.

“No.” Pete declared. “That’s what hypnotists do. They leave you wanting more. And in your case, clucking like a chicken.”

Everyone laughed, and Gary offered up his own halfhearted chuckle. Sid noticed his reticence.

“Do you remember anything?” Gary thought for a second before replying,

“No. I mean — yes, I vaguely recall hearing him telling me things. Then the hypnotist guy — ”

“You mean Rando the Revealer?” Franklin interjected, feeling for the first time like he was a part of the group.

“Yes, Rando, the Revealer fell off the stage, and I woke up.”

Ted weighed in, as he always did. “You were a pip up there. Dancing and clucking like a chicken and carrying on. I couldn’t believe it.” Gary looked to Ted for assurance.

“So, you’re sure he’s not dead?”

“Absolutely. After all, you’re out of the trance. If he were really dead, you’d be stuck.”

That’s what Gary was afraid of.

He didn’t notice it until three days later, in the breakroom for Veronica’s birthday. They lit the candles, and someone yelled out one, two, and before they hit three…

Gary pissed himself.

It happened again at the copy machine. Edna was counting her copies and said out loud one, two…

and Gary pissed himself.

Over the next three weeks, Gary pissed himself eight times. Each and every time occurring when he heard someone counting. This had to stop.

Tuesday morning, bright and early, Gary went to HR and asked for Rando, the Revealer’s phone number. The woman, a long time employee, named Margarie giggled.

“You were great up there, Gary. Whatcha want the number for?”

“Thanks, Margarie. I suppose I just want to thank him.” When she handed him the number, he raced into the hallway and began mashing numbers with his thumb. Several times he had to hit delete and start over. His nerves finally calmed down enough to hit send, and that’s when the nightmare truly began.

“I’m sorry,” said the voice on the other side of the line. “He passed recently. Tragic thing, he fell off the stage at a corporate event. Died on impact.” The voice on the other end grew dim as the panic set in. There was only one conclusion that made sense; Rando had implanted something in his subconscious regarding counting and pissing his pants. If he was dead, what did that mean for him?

What was he going to do?

After several minutes of careful consideration, Gary raced back to his desk and booked a plane ticket that night to New Orleans. When he arrived in town, he went to the heart of Bourbon Street, where he found an old woman. She was sitting on the corner, begging for change.

“Old woman! Tell me where I can find a witch.”

The old woman pointed her crooked finger and said, “two blocks down, hook a left and ask for Wendy.” Then she took out her teeth and laughed. Gary nodded and tossed a quarter in her general direction.

Gary did as he was told and found Wendy the Witch. He explained his predicament, and Wendy explained the solution involved four hundred dollars in cash upfront. Gary grumbled but took out his wallet and handed over the money. Wendy eyed the green and began to count,

“One, two…”

And Gary pissed himself.