Another hour had passed, and Ted lay there, even more desperate to take a shit.
“Ted,” Vinnie said. “Get the fuck up.”
“I gotta shit so bad, Vinnie,” Ted said.
“We’re on a timeframe.” Vinnie checked his watch. “Spent a lot of time watching, figuring out when the best time to jack a boat is. Are you going to be ready?”
“Shit… so… bad,” Ted explained, grossly.
“Christ,” Vinnie said. “Take a shit in the swamp. Be an amateur. See if I care.”
“I can’t.” Ted thought he saw the spectre of his bitchy grandmother haunting him.
“Ted, I’m telling you to take a shit.”
Ted seriously considered the option. He really, really needed to shit. But then again, he remembered The Legend of The Swamp Dick.
It was an old legend, one that many said was merely a story meant to scare children. But Ted’s bitchy grandmother had told it to him many times over the years. And eventually he’d come to internalize it over the years.
Yes, there was a giant-sized Swamp Dick that roamed the swamp. People couldn’t tell if it was a man who thought he was a swamp, or if he was a swamp who thought itself a man. But either way, he often killed people who fucked up his swamp, which made him a dick.
Like, seriously. Killing people? Dick move.
Ted thought about it. Most of the people Swamp Dick had apparently fucked up had been truly malicious: people trying to destroy more of the swamp, setting fires to it, that sort of thing.
But Ted wasn’t being malicious, was he?
No, he decided. He really needed to take a shit, so that’s what he would do.
Swamp Dick be damned.