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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
by RRP
James sat in front of the toilet with a concerned look on his face. Sam stood above him, suddenly blocking the light, and the three foot toddler looked up at the towering, six foot something man. He immediately burst into sobs, pointing to the toilet and babbling incoherently.
Sam knelt down next to the wailing tot, and pulled him into a sitting position. In a firm voice, he asked the dreaded question: “What did you flush down the toilet?” James paused for a second, and studied Sam’s face before breaking out in sobs again, tears streaking his dirty face. Amidst the babble and wailing, moaning and flinging, Sam caught three words.
“Sorry”. “Your”. And “Keys”.
Sam felt his pockets in a panic, vaguely remembering taking them from James earlier, and his heart dropped into his stomach when his pockets turned up empty. James was clinging to Sam’s leg, still sobbing and babbling. As frustrated as Sam was, he wanted some answers. He forced himself to remain calm. Which meant not panicking. Which was very, very hard to do.
“Calm down, kid. Calm down.” James slowly stopped, sniffling a hundred miles an hour. He looked back up into Sam’s face, and found a stony mask in place of anger. In a way, it was comforting to the small boy. “How did you get the keys?”
“You dwopped ‘em when you got dat rappit.” Sam distantly remembered hearing a metallic clang, and crediting it to the dryer. No such luck. James’ lower lip trembled pitifully, and he bit back another wail. “I wanted to see ‘em go round. But they runned away down dat hole, and I can’t catch ‘em!” Sam sighed, and moved the little boy over a couple feet, so he could peer down into the toilet.
Yes, it was a toilet. Yes, it was Miss Parker’s house. But those were his keys trapped down there, so he made a decision. He was going to try to fish them out. He rolled up his sleeve, and put his hand down the toilet, grimacing at the very thought of his actions. James watched with interest, eyes growing wide.
By some miracle, Sam caught the keys. He attempted to grasp them with two fingers, and pull backwards. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. He tried to tug again, with the same results. With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Sam realized what was wrong and he paled.
His hand was stuck.
Sam cursed, and James gasped. “Bad word!” The little boy chastised, shaking his head vigorously. Sam pulled again on his hand and the keys, wincing when his wrist twisted the wrong way.
“Look, kiddo. My hand is stuck. Hold tight, okay?” Sam hoped he could keep the little boy’s attention– if James wondered off, and he couldn’t get his hand out, there was no telling what havoc the little boy could wreak upon the house.
“Stuck?” James inquired with a hint of surprise. His eyes lit up, and he struggled to his feet. “I go get peanoot booter. Dat’s what got dat sticky gum outta my hair.” James toddled off triumphantly, proud that he could “help”, while Sam yelled after him to stay.
“James! James, get back here! Peanut butter won’t help! Come here!” Sam shouted after the child, pulling harder and harder on his hand the whole time. He gave a final jerk, trying to stand at the same time. It turned out to be a mistake.
He flew backwards in the direction of his still-stuck arm, and hit his head on the toilet seat. All was blackness.
Sam slowly came to, aware that there was a blurry figure standing over him. His eyes slowly focused, and he gasped. The figure was none other than Miss Parker, and she looked beyond angry. His arm was twisted at an awkward angle, and hurt like the fiery, forgotten sub-level.
“What are you doing?” Miss Parker demanded of him, as Sam tried to sit up.
“Umm...” Sam racked his brains for a plausible excuse, and settled on the truth. “James flushed my keys down the drain, and I was trying to get them.” She gave him the Eyebrow, and Sam resisted the urge to shiver.
“Did it not occur to you to call a plumber?”
“Not really.” Sam admitted, brow furrowing. He should have thought of that– then he wouldn’t be in this situation now. He gave a start, and then asked in a rush, “Where’s James?”
“Asleep on the living room floor, lucky for you. And for me. I don’t have to deal with him while I interrogate you. Now, get your hand out of my damn toilet before I shoot it off.”
At this threat, Sam jerked hard on his hand, with no luck. Miss Parker pulled out her gun, and before he could even so much as yell in protest, she squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the pipe, and the toilet blew up in Sam’s face. Blackness again.
Mr. Lyle stood over the Sweeper, he was pretty sure Sam was the guy’s name, and waited for the glass of water he had thrown on the man’s head to work. The Sweeper sat up with a yell, the force of the motion wrenching his hand out of the plumbing at the same time, causing him to yell again. Lyle almost pitied the guy– but not quite.
Sam held his hand and looked up at Mr. Lyle, who was covered with splotches of paint and looking very mad. He slowly stood, so he at least had the advantage of height. Lyle studied Sam, and Sam studied Lyle.
“What happened to you?” They both asked at the same time. Sam nodded, “Go ahead.”
“I walked in the door, and brother dearest threw paint at me. I don’t think my sister will be too happy with the condition of her living room. What about you?”
“He flushed my keys. Before that, he put the rabbit in the dryer. Before that, he nearly washed out all the landscaping with the garden hose. And before that, he covered the kitchen in oatmeal.” Sam growled, wiping his arm off with a nearby towel, and mentally guessing that he had at least sprained it, if not more.
“I came here to tell my sister something, but I guess she’s already at the Centre. Good luck cleaning the paint up from her carpet, and getting the peanut butter out of the couch.” Lyle nodded, and left Sam standing in the bathroom, staring dumbly after him. The full meaning of his words hit Sam, and he rushed out of the bathroom and thundered down the steps.
His first thought upon arrival in the living room was that he was beyond murdered– he was a walking dead man.
