A friend of mine had some bad food in Little Saigon and left Lincoln Logs in every latrine from Leeds Street to Lafayette Park. In gruesome detail he described his stomach making animal noises so loud it stopped the fish from swimming in his basement aquarium. It was there I dubbed him "Mayor of Dump City." I've heard projectile vomiting stories less gross than what he broke down and admitted after a humid night of heavy drinking
Every rest stop constituted a rectal bombardment of bacterial fecal matter on an undeserving toilet bowl. A box of crayons failed to compare to the colors flushed out to the sea. He was an unwilling soldier drafted in the middle of a bloody biological war. His underwear had a brown streak large enough to be seen by the human eye on the International Space Station. His desperate demon-dumps became a weapon of protest as he sat down to denounce the poisonous restaurant establishment on the Internet.
He composed a fiction piece using the notepad on his smartphone. His ass hurt more than Mike Tyson punching you in the ribs six times. But to his credit he used the pain as a muse and poured out a poetic invective worthy of a purple acid rant at Woodstock. The Mayor of Dump City sat on his throne and ordered paragraphs of creative prose meant to metaphorically document his intestinal chaos and all the bloated brimstone that followed. It was the only thing he had control of that day. I've never been a fan of conspiracy stories and yet the tale he spun was a hybrid take on UFOS and bowel movements. I never saw the connection until he pointed out surprising details on why aliens are fascinated with our fannies. Hollywood may reach out to this fool provided the call is not blocked by the 17th toilet stall he just sprinted to --- in the nick of time. The Mayor of Dump City was a legendary record holder in my parts for nearly a decade. No one was documented hitting the John 19 times in a 36 hour period. Until the first case of Ebola arrived straight from the undeveloped jungles of Africa. Now it wasn't a laughing matter. Now it was possible to dump yourself to death. This shit was for real.
Bio: Mark Antony Rossi's poetry, criticism, fiction and photography have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Another Chicago Review, Bareback Magazine, Black Heart Review, Collages & Bricolages, Death Throes, Ethical Spectacle, Gravel, Flash Fiction, Japanophile, On The Rusk, Purple Patch, Scrivener Creative Review, Sentiment Literary Journal, The Sacrificial ,Wild Quarterly and Yellow Chair Review. http://markantonyrossi.jigsy.com