“Can you show me the mummy?”

“I can show you the wrappings,” Max said.

When we walked past the officer’s mess, it was spaghetti Thursday. “Let’s do this, quickly. Do you have the latrine taped-off?”

“Sure.”

“Who is the nincompoop who blocked my stall?” General Wheeler demanded. He was wearing an all-green uniform that was too tight around his ass.

“Is there a side entrance?” I asked.

“What did you think—we don’t go down the toilet.”

“I’m not an expert in these matters—the mind is my sewer.”

“There’s a manhole.”

“Funny—feminists haven’t insisted on calling them people holes, just yet. They want the corporate positions and not the shit jobs.”

“You got that right,” Max said.

We walked into the stink and I held my breath, until I couldn’t any longer. “It’s in my mouth.”

“Just think about something else. I envision green fields full of cows. There’s the anti-chamber, but wait! Those wrappings are displayed differently!”

Then Max pointed to the shitty brown floor. “Footprints!” He gasped.

They walked towards me. Then, something or somebody, knocked me down, and I knew three showers wouldn’t be enough to get me clean.

“We can’t let that thing mingle in the military. An invisible man, or whatever it is, can go anywhere!”

It was walking up the concrete steps, to the desert sand above. Max followed it, but when he stuck his head through the manhole, he got kicked in the face, and came crashing down. Luckily, he had a soft landing.

“Man—getting covered in poop, is positively medieval.”

“You got that right—what do we do now?”

“You’re the psychiatrist.”

“Well—you’re not crazy, Max. We have to warn our commanding officer.”

To be continued…

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