I was talking to this girl—pixie cut, pinup sleeve, black swing dress. We’d been at it for twenty minutes. I Wanna Be Your Dog. She said something about the Stooges. I said something about Moe. She touched my arm. My bladder kicked in. “Don’t go anywhere,” I told her. She smiled.

I headed down the stairs. Thin wood paneling covered in stickers, barely lit. The line for the stalls was crazy: six guys deep, one of them soiled. The urinals: broken tiles, graffiti everywhere, piss pooled on the floor. One had a cigarette butt floating in. Another was clogged. I walked up to the least disgusting one, unzipped, got ready—the punk showed up.

Leather jacket. Studs. Bald. He walked past two empty urinals and took the one directly beside mine. He started pissing immediately. Loud. Hard. Impressive. I stood there. Impotent.

The punk’s stream kept going. I stared at the wall, at the graffiti. Waiting Room. The punk finished. Zipped up. Shook his hand dry. But instead of leaving, he stayed.

“Syphilis?”

“What?”

“Syphilis?” he asked, nodding at my dick.

I focused on myself.

“Chlamydia? Gonorrhea?”

“Dude. Fuck off.”

He walked away. I closed my eyes. Deep breath. Gave up. Fuck.

I climbed upstairs and scanned the bar for the pixie hair. Punk Rock Girl. Shaking it.

“Hey!” She turned. Smiled. “The line was crazy—”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. The punk. He leaned in between us, his baldness nearly touching my face, and looked at her.

“Syphilis,” he said.

She blinked. Looked at me. At him.

“Syphilis,” he repeated, jerking his head toward me.

She made a face and stepped back.

I turned to the punk. “What the fuck?”

He smiled, patted my shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

RE: SYPHILIS

Hey Mario—I dig the randomness of the punk; however, the piece just didn’t feel like it had enough of a character arc for me. Right now, it just feels like an interesting anecdote, but I need at least a couple more background details about this guy to see the significance of the anecdote and the punchline.

RE: RE: SYPHILIS

Hi Ben—This is a true story, man. 2009. That dude fucked my night. Is that enough of an arc, or should I start clubbing again to go find the punk? I don’t think my wife would appreciate that.

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Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His stories can be found in Expat Press, JMWW, House of Arcanum, Last Girls’ Club, and Horrific Scribes, as well as in his website, mariosenzale.neocities.org