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Clamping my lips closed, I sprint to the bathroom and nearly slip on the plastic while I yank the cord out of the outlet, and then I run the appliance outside and chuck it into the parking lot.

I bend over, gripping my knees and sucking in as many lungfuls of clean air I can. I can still hear Joan Osborne crooning from the speakers inside the room, asking what if God was one of us.

So, yeah, I’ve had better days.

Right now, I need to focus. This unholy stench will torpedo my chance at renting another room here—and I still have another guy to finish.

“And why do I taste fucking bologna!” I shout back into the room, accusatorily.

I know what I have to do . . . I have to clean up the shit. I just need to get that bastard off the toilet first.

Anna

Have you eaten? I made a big pot of chili.

My gag is visceral—an immediate, full-body rejection.

All set, thanks.

I unzip and wrench my arms out of my diver suit, then tear off my T-shirt to wrap around my face like a mask before reentering ground zero.

“Bob, you look terrific! You’re plump and smooth like you just came out of a medspa!”

Probably the edema.

“Unfortunately, you smell like fermented dip spit and old potatoes, and that just doesn’t work for me.” I fumble with the wrist cuffs as I unclasp them, then release the yellow strap across his torso. It gives way and he topples forward like a fucking bowling pin, landing with a thud. I stare at the man, face down, ass up. After a beat he releases a fart that I just know will kill me if I attempt to breathe.

I glance at the fan—Jesus Christ, there’s still fourteen more minutes in this hell—and back to Robert again. His fingers are purple.

“What the— Wait, did you fucking die on me?”

Goddamn it. I yank off the belt and groan.

He choked on his vomit.

I uncuff one of his ankles and chuck the chain at the wall. “You know what, that’s probably for the best.”

It’s not like I was helping the situation in any way. Probably time to leave the rest to the professional; the bill for this is going to be astronomical as it is.

I glance down at the pile of shit. Just get it over with. With my head turned away, I do my best to shovel the slop into the toilet using some of his clothing scraps, then flush it using my covered boot. Naturally the toilet backs up.

I rip off my gloves and throw them on top of Bologna Balls before running outside in search of fresh oxygen.

Anna

What time do you think you’ll be over?

I stare at the screen then over my shoulder—back to the room of death. Welp, I think I’ve managed the situation as best as I possibly can. I leave the diving suit behind, along with a strongly worded apology.

Need a shower and then I’ll head out.

Steve’s mug shot fills my television screen and I lunge for the remote to turn up the volume. My fingers drift to my lips as I stare dumbfounded in disbelief.

He’s dead?

The local news anchor gives a short statement, something about a gang-related homicide, and then just like that they’re moving on to another news story.

I barely hear anything, because the only thing my mind can focus on is . . . he’s gone.