Pissant

Just like last year, a country music festival was held in the Dominion's vicinity. Like most years, the people who went out there did so to spend an unreasonable amount of money listening to barely mediocre music, getting drunk off their asses, and rubbing up against other people lasciviously. Visitors from far and wide inexplicably come to take in this festival's dubious highlights. It's like a fun-sized version of what happens during hunting season.

A silver pickup truck pulls up before the Dominion from the alleyway between it and a neighboring building. A guy gets out and meanders (more accurately, staggers) across the lot to the door. The truck pulls away as the chimes tinkle and the stranger saunters up to the counter and leans on it.

“Hey man, you got a pisser I can use?” asks the man, though his pronunciation is closer to “Hemmin, y'gah pisser Ic'n-uze?”

Fernando swivels his chair about to face the guest. “Sorry, I don't.”

“C'mon man. I gotta go!”

Fernando peers out the window at the distinct lack of silver pickup in the parking lot. “Where did your buddies go?”

“Over...over there.” He tilts his head over his shoulder, in the direction of the nearby gas station.

“You didn't go with them to use their toilet?”

“How do you go to the bathroom?” asks the man.

Giving an answer to Fernando's legitimate question proved too taxing for his inebriated thought processes, and this prompts Fernando to answer his query in the most honest way. “Standing up, on occasion sitting.”

“I mean here.”

“I don't. I'm like a camel.”

“Oh.” The man looks awkwardly around the foyer for a few seconds before turning and leaving. Fernando does not see the silver pickup pass back in front of the Dominion on the return trip.

Christ, is the music fest so starved for cash that they charge people to use their overflowing, rancid porta-potties, too?