Setting: A grimy public restroom in a rundown gas station, flickering fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. The air smells like despair, pine-scented air freshener, and regret. A single stall door creaks open, revealing the scene: a man, mid-40s, lies upside down on the filthy tile floor, his bare ass pointed skyward like a tragic monument. His pants are around his ankles, his face frozen in a grimace of existential defeat. A grotesque, petrified turd is lodged in his backside, glistening under the light like a cursed artifact. A faint trail of what looks like insides snakes out, as if his soul was yanked out through his colon. The sound of a dripping faucet echoes.

Enter JERRY, a weary gas station clerk, chewing on a toothpick, holding a mop like it’s his only friend. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the scene.

JERRY (muttering): Oh, for fuck’s sake, not again. (louder, to the corpse) Yo, buddy, this ain’t the place for performance art! Get up, you’re scaring the roaches.

He nudges the guy’s leg with the mop. No response. Jerry leans closer, squinting at the ass-up catastrophe.

JERRY: Jesus H. Christ on a cracker, what is that? (gags, waves hand in front of face) Smells like Satan’s protein shake. And that… (points at the lodged turd) That’s no ordinary shit. That’s the kind of shit that signs a lease and demands a deposit.

He pulls out his phone, dials his manager, pacing around the body like it’s a crime scene.

JERRY (into phone): Yo, Marlene, we got a situation in the men’s room. Dude’s dead, ass-up, lookin’ like he tried to launch his soul into orbit through his butthole. No, I ain’t touchin’ him! Last time I cleaned up a mess like this, I found a tooth in the urinal. A tooth, Marlene!

He hangs up, stares at the corpse, shaking his head.

JERRY (to the body): What the hell happened, man? You eat a burrito from the hot case? Push too hard tryin’ to birth the mother of all logs? (pauses, philosophical) Bet it was constipation. Seen it before—guy strains so hard his heart goes “fuck this, I’m out.” Or maybe you just pissed off the toilet gods. Shoulda flushed twice, pal.

A CUSTOMER, a nervous 20-something in flip-flops, pokes his head in, sees the scene, and freezes.

CUSTOMER: Oh my God, is he…?

JERRY (deadpan): Dead? Yeah. Also, congrats, you’re the first to witness the Ass-tastrophe of ’25. Wanna take a selfie with it?

CUSTOMER (backing away): I… I just needed to pee…

JERRY (shrugging): Pee outside, kid. This stall’s booked for eternity. (mutters) Gonna need a priest, a plunger, and a hazmat suit for this one.

Jerry grabs his mop, gives the corpse one last look, and sighs.

JERRY: Rest in peace, Captain Clog. You went out with a bang… or at least a blockage.

Lights dim as the faucet drips louder, almost like it’s laughing.

SYNOPSIS:

In the grimy, flickering hellscape of a gas station public restroom, a man meets his maker in the most undignified way possible: upside down, bare-assed, with a petrified turd lodged like a grim trophy, his insides trailing as if death itself yanked his soul through his colon. Enter Jerry, a chain-smoking, mop-wielding clerk who’s seen enough weird shit to fill a horror anthology, but even he’s floored by this ass-up apocalypse. With deadpan wit and a toothpick for moral support, Jerry navigates the scene, speculating on the poor sap’s demise—constipation-induced heart attack? Cosmic payback for culinary sins? A burrito betrayal? As a freaked-out customer stumbles into the chaos, Jerry dishes out dark humor and hard truths, turning a grotesque tragedy into a sidesplitting commentary on life’s absurdity. "The Throne of Doom" is a biting, laugh-out-loud sketch that blends visceral gross-out comedy with sharp existential jabs, proving that even in death, the universe loves a good punchline—especially when it’s delivered from the wrong end.