With what I had seen over the previous few days, there was no telling what was hidden behind the dented and stained white metal of the door in front of me. It looked innocent enough, sure, and it blended in with the scenery, but something was amiss. The people in this part of the building were different, somehow. All of them were men, all with a look in their eyes like they had a void in their soul that needed to be filled... or maybe emptied. One of these wanderers had come out the door only a few moments earlier, his eyes almost glittering, and he'd left in such a hurry that he hadn't even closed the door behind him. He'd washed his hands, then- I'd heard the rush of water- and disappeared into the crowds without a word. Something was going down behind that door. Something stank, literally.
Through the crack, I could see what looked like more of the same white porcelain walls that graced the rest of the room. But something else caught my eyes: Five or six little gray metal hooks, each maybe an inch long. But for what? That man who'd walked through that door, what could that guy have needed to hang? What could anyone need to hang in that 5x5 room, and why? I started to reach slowly for my pistol, then stopped; surely, they had eyes on me already. I wasn't supposed to be here, and they knew it. With a look behind me, I realized I was being tailed. Some kid stood watching me, his face expressionless except for what appeared to be... hate. A shock of panic hit me suddenly. I'd made a mistake. They'd been watching me since I'd walked through the main door, and time had grown short without my even knowing. Without a word, I plunged through the door.
The door gave easily. TOO easily, and it hit the wall so hard it bounced back and hit me square in the elbow. I jumped back at the surprise of it, and my head hit the hard porcelain wall... right beside the hooks that might have dug into my brain. I stepped carefully away from the wall, keeping my eyes on the hooks, then felt the final trap: my foot began to slip down into the floor. I almost cursed as I struggled for footing and leapt back into the almost closed door, slamming it shut. I then turned, eyeing the door for any way to secure it against the small boy who'd been watching me, and found a small cylindrical lock. No sure protection, but better than nothing. I slid it into place and turned to eye what had surely been meant to be the end of me. What in the name of the gods...
In the middle of the floor, right where I'd damn near met my end, was a 3x3 square of porcelain that was different from the others. Two sections of the floor were covered with consistent ridges meant for some dark purpose that could only make sense if I could put myself into the mind of the depraved people who came in here for their dark, stinking business. Between the ridged sections was a depression that started at maybe 3 inches of depth, then sloped downward to... a hole. It was just a hole. Prettied up with porcelain, sure, but it was just a hole in the middle of the floor.
My mind raced. What purpose could this hole have? I thought back to the man who'd come out as I'd neared the door: he knew what went on in here, but he was long gone. There was no catching him. And the boy outside, watching, he wouldn't know anything. His bosses probably promised him candy, or bullets for his tiny pistol, or that they'd let his family live. They wouldn't give him any information beyond what he needed to know: That I was on the verge of figuring out their dark, damp, stinking secret.
That was when it hit me: Information was the key! That man's eyes were glittering with KNOWLEDGE. I eyed the hole suspiciously, then thought back to the Viet Cong, hiding everything in holes. Sure, the Viet Cong had dissipated. Sure, Malaysia was far from Vietnam. Sure, there are better ways to hide information, but not ways that can't be easily figured out or intercepted. This was the perfect hiding place. A strange hole in a strange room with no signs to tell you what was going on: If you had to ask, you didn't belong. I placed my hands on the ridged sections and lowered my ear to the hole.
"I'm listening." I said in what I hoped sounded like English with an Asian accent. "I am ready for your informations."
But nothing happened. All I heard was the drip of water from somewhere in the room,and the fidgeting of the boy outside. He was clearly antsy to put a bullet where the sun didn't shine.
Suddenly, fury gripped me. After this chase, after all this time, I was just as plugged for information as I'd been in the start. If I couldn't get what I wanted from them, then I'd give THEM something to ponder. Something that stank just as bad as their rotten crimes. I stood and let loose a curse. No matter if the boy heard. His feeble little body couldn't break through the sliding lock. I stood on the ridges, then thought again: I didn't want to make a mistake, make a mess, and leave evidence on my best slacks. Carefully, I removed my pants and boxers, hung each on the hooks on the wall, then returned my feet to the ridged parts of the floor and squatted low, so low that even the dankest portions of my colon would not go un-emptied. With a grunt, I let loose. Unfortunately, the squatting position gave me a prime view of my act. Wow, that was disgusting. Seriously, ugh.
But man, did it feel good to give my quarry a piece of my mind. Or a piece of my last few meals, anyway.
Once I'd finished, I reached into my pants pocket for a few stretches of toilet paper onto which I had hurriedly scribbles clues, earlier. No more need for those. Good thing I'd brought my own, too, since there was none in this god-awful stall. Er, room. Just some weird hose contraption that I preferred not to use on my butthole, thank you very much. I wiped my ass clean after numerous attempts, then found something I'd neglected to notice, in my haste. A lever. After all this time, I'd overlooked what might have been the ON switch for the communication hole. I hurriedly put on my pants and, with a dainty foot, pressed the lever.
The ground erupted with a roar, and I realized that my poops must have clogged their information hole. If I didn't hurry, my number might be up. I fumbled with the lock, pulled the door open and shouldered the stupid little boy out of my way as I scrambled for the exit. I hurriedly washed my hands, since there is always time for proper hygiene, and if I'm going to die, I'd rather not have poop germs on my fingers, and the floor continued to rumble as I sprinted out of the room, out through the crowded building, and to unexpected safety.
As I write this from a safe location, I can only hope they got the message: I'll be back.
Note: I made most of this up. Except the relevant parts about pooping.