She held a few bobby pins clamped between her teeth as she pulled her hair back into a pony tail. A look of relaxed determination crossed her face as she walked across the room to look out over the parking lot. She had just filled the toilet paper dispenser in one of the ladies rooms with an industrial grade eight inch roll. Jake in maintenance had once told her with all the relish of a game show contestant, that each roll was good for six hundred and twelve ass wipes—five hundred and twenty if seven people had even the slightest case of the runs. He ended his trivia with this:
“There’s no acountin’ for the nose blowers and criers.”

Beth Ann feared how he knew that. She’d read last year in the Daily News, that a man had been arrested wearing a suit constructed of black plastic garbage bags and duct tape. He was caught with a camera, perched like a fly in the pit of an outhouse, documenting the bottoms of visitors as they made their deposits. She knew there were no pits under the toilets at the airport, but she wouldn’t rule out a stealthily placed spy cam in the hinges of the stall.

Her world had done a mudslide from the stormy end of her marriage. The bastard, closed out the accounts and left her with moldy cheese in the fridge. She hired a investigator to track his him down, but he’d done a thorough job of changing his identity. Revenge boiled in the back in the back of her mind, festering in the swamp of something that borders on hate. If she’d ever got the chance, she’d make him wish that he’d never been born with nerve endings.

Move on she thought. Buck-up and move on. Good words to live by if she hadn’t see him with a young chickie-poo feeding each other lo mein noodles like love sick teens in the airport food court. Probably going off to bask in the sun and fuck like otters. She waited. He had a weak bladder—he would need to go.

It had taken her a minute. Just one minute to lay in the electric connection. She’d closed the mens room and waited. As he approached, she’d asked Jake to let that one gentleman in the restroom, then place the sign, temporarily closed for your convenience.

There was a brief, but ear piercing scream. Security ran into the men’s room and found a man on his back, smoke rising from his hands and his crotch. The forensic photos would show a man, electrocuted when he’d completed the circuit by urinating into an electrified toilet. His penis had split like an overdone sausage, pinkish meat bursting in an atomic bomb of minuscule destruction.

Beth Ann served a one year prison term for accidental manslaughter.