The Preachers are Here...Watch for Miracle Poo

Whore! Masturbator! Fornicator! I was surprised to hear these words flung at me in such a cavalier manner on my beloved UNF Green.

How does this skinny guy know me was my first thought. Damn. I haven't been on campus in a while, an my reputation is still the subject of shouted insults on the Green. I felt honored, but confused.

I made my way quickly to the Broken Spoke, the underground whiskey bar and poker game that floats around the UNF campus. The Spoke has been around the campus in one location or another since the late eighties, and as a Founding Member I have a lifetime honorary membership, sort of like the UNF Alumni Association. I still had to get a parking pass, though.

I called my friend Breeze on the cell and he met me in the courtyard. We made our way to the secret location of the Broken Spoke where I ordered a double scotch rocks with water back, lit an Arturo Fuente 858 and kicked back in a comfortable wing-backed chair. Breeze joined me. We were the only two people in the joint except for the bartender, a little guy wearing a Deh Sucks tee shirt. After I got the Fuente going I breathed out a cloud of smoke and spent some time catching up on things with Breeze. We passed a happy hour. Then I told him about my encounter with the earnest young fellow on the Green.

You met The Preacher said Breeze, he looked pensive and said no more.

I waited. Patience is a virtue, especially when smoking and drinking and story telling. Most people don't really appreciate or practice the art of listening.

Breeze got his Macanudo going and took a healthy quaff of Beam. He leaned back, put his feet up, and finally proceeded to fill me in on the recent goings-on at my beloved UNF.

Preachers have been showing up on campus he said somberly. They've been out there.... on The Green.

Preachers? The skinny guy who called me a masturbator and a whore was a preacher? Hell, he didn't look like no preacher. Who told you he was a preacher, Breeze?

That's what they call themselves. Preachers. Hellfire. Damnation. End of the World. They say they are Preachers.

I smoked on it a while and ordered another scotch and a Beam for Breeze. He seemed shaken by these guys. What's the big deal Breeze? It's the Green. We saw the Georgia Satellites there. We threw Frisbees and talked shit there back in the day. It's a place where you can hang out and discuss whatever floats your boat. The skinny guy seemed harmless, even if he does call himself a Preacher. He's just doing what you do on the Green. This ain't like you B. Guy's full of Duck Shit. Fuggetabouthim.

Breeze just sat in silence sipping his whiskey. His Macanudo was smoked up and I gave him a Fuente. He lit it and smoked in silence. I waited.

He looked up at me and I could see the fear in his eyes. These Preachers he whispered They ain't normal. They're different.

Breeze, you told me you don't believe in Zombies anymore. Come on. Zombies are just Hollywood stuff. They aren't real. Come on Big Guy. You on your meds?

No I don't think he's a zombie said Breeze, exasperated. I didn't say that he was. I just said that they ain't normal.

Breeze then proceeded to relay to me a story so fantastic, so unreal, that had anyone else told me such a tale, I would have sworn he was either a liar, or a lunatic, or both. But Breeze was known to me. He was a friend since our school days. We had gone to university together. We had ridden the same roads the peloton took on the Tour de France many years ago. When you've ridden the Alps du Huez together, you know a fellow, and know to trust what he says at true. So I believe him when he told me....

I was working at my janitorial duties on the fourth floor of the library last year. It was winter and a cold day for North Florida. Earlier, I was going for a bike ride but decided not to. I worked out at the fitness center instead. I was cleaning the men's room on the fourth floor. It was late evening. The library would close soon and I was just finishing up when in comes this guy. Skinny guy. Little beady eyes too close together.

Anyway, he comes in and zips into stall two, which I have already cleaned, and drops his pants to do the Big Job. Crap I think. Gonna have to clean it again.

I've got this pain in the ass supervisor who like to do what he calls Johnny-on-the-Spot inspections. Scatological creep.

Anyway, I'm cleaning the urinals when I hear the stall door open and the skinny guy leaves. Didn't even wash his hands. I move on to clean the sink when it dawns on me...he didn't flush.

Didn't wash his damned hands and didn't flush. That shit bothers me Luke. It always has. It's nasty.

So I go into the stall and sure enough, the guy's deucer is sittin' there bigger 'n shit, only there's something weird about it. It floats. I ain't lyin' Luke, it was glidin' on top of the water like brown whipped cream. It was creepy. Damned creepy.

Well, maybe the guy eats a lot of fiber I offered.

The fact that floats is just part of it Lucas. As he went on, he had tears in his eyes. It floats.....and.... it...it won't flush.

I sat in stunned silence. Breeze was quiet.

You're shittin' me I finally managed to say.

No. No I'm not! I tried to flush the guy's deuce for an hour. It swirls and swirls and swirls but it won't go down. It's still there. A week later. I put an out-of-order sign on that stall. I don't know what to do.

Did you report it to your supervisor? I asked.

He looked at me incredulously. And tell him what? That I've got a heaping pile of Miracle Poo I can't deal with? That would look really good on my next evaluation.

I could tell Breeze was dejected. He wasn't the kind of guy to be defeated easily, but clearly this situation had him undone, so I suggested we go have a look.

We walked across campus and took the elevator to the fourth floor of the library. We spent the next twenty minutes in stall two trying, unsuccessfully, to get Preacher's Miracle Poo to flush. We finally gave up, washed our hands, and left. We went back to the Broken Spoke, got drinks, lit cigars and smoked over it.

Finally I said We need to bring in an expert.

You mean there is an expert in this kind of thing?

Yep. We need a pro from Dover. I know just the guy. And I called Browning.

Brownie you're doin' a heck of a job. I said when he answered.

A long pause. Finally he said You know Luke, I could just kill you when you say that. Then he laughed. I got straight to the point and outlined the situation with the Miracle Poo. He listened attentively, with only brief interruptions to ask pertinent questions. I then listened and made notes as he gave the necessary instructions. We said our goodbyes and I hung up.

Breeze looked at me expectantly. Well, what did he say?

Hair of the dog. I said. Breeze looked at me blankly. I smiled.

Browning is sort of the Obi Wan Kenobi of paranormal sanitation events. I told him. You might say he wrote the book.

There's a book?

Not really, but if there were a book, Browning would be the one to write it. He's not a sanitation engineer any more, but he's still the go to guy for esoteric excrement.

We then went back to the men's room on the fourth floor of the library. I took Gideon's Bible, opened it to page one, and in a loud voice commanded, Vile Excrement of the Preacher, Be Gone!!!!

With a loud noise it flushed and was gone.

We then went to the Boathouse for lunch.