The sequel to the first part, naturally, in which Peter finds himself in Mirroropolis for the first time and also finds himself on the inside of a sumo-wrestling raccoon.

WARNING: full tour vore and more than a little scat

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Memoirs of Mirroropolis

Peter blinked his eyes and opened them slowly. He had landed on something hard and rough. Looking down, he saw it was concrete, and that he had landed on a sidewalk, which should have been physically impossible if he had fallen into the mirror as expected. Unless…
‘Unless I hit my head and I’m unconscious right now,” Peter concluded. Yes, he must have just hit his head as he fell backward, and was now therefore dreaming in some sort of unconscious state. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he heard a crash as he fell? Wouldn’t he have hit the mirror and broken, or at least cracked it as he came into contact with the glass?
Taking a moment to examine his surroundings, he determined that he was in a city of sorts, probably a large one, with towering skyscrapers made of steel and glass mingling with last-generation concrete structures and dwarfing them in scale. There were several small restaurants on one corner, advertising lunch and dinner specials, and an ice cream store next to a drycleaners on the other. Behind the sidewalk was a playground that looked to be under construction, judging by the half-assembled jungle gym and the slide without a ladder. Some cars rounded the sidewalk in front of him, their windows tinted so he couldn’t make out the occupants. Judging by the sunlight reflecting off the skyscrapers, it was mid-afternoon.
“Okay, well this looks normal enough,” Peter muttered to himself, “So far, I have no reason to suspect that anything my grandfather said might actually be…”
He was about to say “true”, of course, when he saw a gorilla in suspenders and a bowtie step out of the ice cream store with a hot fudge sundae in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The primate walked along the sidewalk, staring intently at the tiny phone screen and looking more and more confused with each button he pressed.
“Now, how am I supposed to send a text on this thing?” he muttered as he neared Peter. Seeing him, he tipped his hat and smiled.
“Say there, young feller, you think you might be able to help me operate my cellular telephone here?” he asked hopefully.
“Uh… I… maybe?” Peter stuttered.
Seeing his confused face, the gorilla said, “Now, don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you. I’m a vegetarian. Besides, I already had lunch and I’ve got this sundae, too.”
He took another bite of his sundae as he handed Peter the cell phone. Peter frowned, shook his head, and quickly figured out how to get to text.
“Here you go,” Peter said, handing the phone back to the gorilla, “You just enter the message using the number keys for letters,” he demonstrated this for the gorilla, “And then you hit this button here to send the message.”
“Why thank you,” said the gorilla, “My daughter will be very happy I can use this thing now.” He began to walk off, but Peter stopped him.
“Wait! Where am I?” Peter begged.
“Why, you’re in the South Quarter, Orange District, Evergreen Street,” the gorilla said, “What part of the city are you trying to get to, I can give you directions.”
“What…” Peter began, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it from someone else, “What city is this?”
“Why, it’s Mirroropolis, son,” the gorilla replied, frowning intensely at him, “Where else could you be, the ocean?” He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his sundae.
“Right, of course,” Peter laughed back.
“Are you sure I can’t help you with directions or anything?” the gorilla asked, frowning again, “You do seem a little lost.”
“No… no, I’ll be fine, thanks,” Peter muttered in response, feeling a little sick all of the sudden.
“Alright, then,” the gorilla shrugged, “Thanks again for your help.” He turned and walked away.
So it was true. His grandfather wasn’t crazy after all, and he hadn’t made it all up either. Mirroropolis was real, as real as anywhere else, and Peter was somewhere in the middle of it. Who knew where, though? Orange district, that’s what the gorilla had said. South Quarter, Orange District… Tree… Oak, no, Evergreen Street. He looked to the edge of the sidewalk and saw a street sign, “Evergreen St./ Moore Ave.”, as more cars went by on the road. What he needed to do was find a map so he could get his bearings, he concluded as he noticed two young female leopards dressed in modern clothing exiting one of the restaurants, chatting to each other as they walked to their car.
Not knowing where to go or where anything was, Peter thought back to his grandfather’s story and realized he didn’t need to figure out where the hell he was, he just needed to find a mirror so he could get back home. But… another part of him didn’t want to leave just yet. It wanted to see just what this strange place was all about, and that part of him set his feet moving in search of a city map.
‘All I have to do,’ he thought, as he began wandering the sidewalk, ‘is find a city park or something and I can figure out where I am and decide where I want to go.’
He turned the corner and saw something just across the street that stopped him where he stood. A female lion in an “I heart Mirroropolis” t-shirt and jeans had pounced on a teenage boy in sandals and sunglasses and was literally drooling over him. The scene was taking place in front of a corner bookstore and the other humans and animals didn’t seem to be taking any notice, as they wandered on by without saying a word or sparing a glance.
‘This must be an everyday occurrence here,’ Peter thought as he watched in some sort of morbid fascination, ‘they don’t even seem to care what’s happening.’
He watched as the lion licked the boy’s face repeatedly, then grabbed his legs with her paws and stuffed his feet into her salivating maw. Peter watched as her throat undulated, helping her to push her prey into her esophagus little by little. He also noticed that the boy looked pissed off, but not terrified, as he imagined he himself would have been. As his torso disappeared into her throat, the lion stood up and let gravity assist her with the boy’s upper half.
“Damn it, this is not how I wanted to spend my afternoon!” the boy shouted, whacking the lion on the nose. She ignored him and continued swallowing. His lower half was now a large, slowly descending bulge in her esophagus. His arms, followed by his shoulders, disappeared from view down her throat, and Peter noted with some disgust that her ravenous actions had produced small spots of saliva on the ground in front of her: it dripped from her mouth as the boy sunk deeper and deeper into her esophagus. Finally, with an audible and wet gulping, he disappeared down her throat, the muscles bulging as he slid downwards into her stomach, which expanded tremendously to make room for its new occupant. The lion smiled and patted her bulging belly. She belched loudly, then turned and walked off.
Understandably, Peter now felt more than a little paranoid about wandering around here. Even with the accelerated digestion and excretion process, more so the fact that it was not in any way harmful, he didn’t exactly want to get eaten and spend the afternoon passing through and out the other end of something. Yet… the process had enthralled his grandfather. He said it was disgusting yet fascinating, turning into something akin to one of those “This is my anti-drug” commercials.
‘Being eaten alive repeatedly… this is my anti-drug,’ Peter imagined with a chuckle his grandfather saying these words in his very own commercial, giving a thumbs up to the camera as he stood halfway down a tiger’s throat. It was a genuinely funny little vision.
Still, he didn’t know if he wanted to experience it for himself, even though he did want to see what the city had to offer. He reasoned that the best way to avoid becoming a meal was to keep an eye out for possible dangers. Perhaps these predators, with all their human-like behaviors, displayed some sort of animalistic warning sign? No, no, wait, that only applied to territory and things like that, Peter remembered as he turned quickly to avoid a gazelle in a flowing pink dress pushing a stroller.
‘Now, this is just being stupid,’ he thought, ‘Surely something like that isn’t going to try and eat me…’ he heard a metal clanking and noticed an alligator sewer worker emerging from a manhole, ‘While something like that probably is.’
Then again, he remembered that his grandfather had been eaten by a beaver in his story, so it was entirely possible that traditional standards of carnivore and herbivore were much more lax over here. Finally spotting another human reading the newspaper outside of a restaurant, he decided the best way to find out would be to ask.
“Excuse me, but could you help me with something?” Peter asked the man reading the paper.
The man, a middle aged black male in a designer business suit, folded his newspaper and looked up at Peter from behind his silver-rimmed glasses.
“Sure, it’s always nice to help out a fellow human,” he said, “What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if you could give me some advice for avoiding predators,” he said, “I’m… uh… not from around here and would like to spend my afternoon on the outside, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure, no problem,” the man said, “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking? Fairridge? Evanstown? You must surely be from one of those new high-rise communities that don’t allow predators, no?”
“Yeah, I’m from Evanstown,” Peter lied, deciding that was the best way to avoid another awkward conversation like the one with the gorilla, “Just thought I’d take a little vacation and see more of the city.”
“I’ve been meaning to go to the West Quarter myself,” replied the man, “Lots of new and exciting things going on over there. Anyway, I can’t give you too much advice on avoiding predators besides trying to keep away from the animals. It’s not like you really know what’s going to try and eat you, but you’re generally safe around anything that looks like it’s already eaten someone. Even larger predators, like elephants and hippos, aren’t going to eat anything else if they’ve already got something in their stomachs. The best rule, though, is to avoid going near any public restrooms, because larger predators aren’t adverse to releasing whoever they ate and swallowing the next person they see right afterwards. Now, you generally only have to worry about that with the larger predators, so anything smaller than a bear, you’re probably okay.”
“Thanks, that’s actually pretty helpful,” Peter said.
“Now, they do make this line of spray chemicals and perfumes that are supposed to ward off predators, but they’re really expensive and they don’t all work very well,” the man warned, “If you like, though,” he said, reaching into his jacket, and pulling out a small bottle of what looked like spray cologne, “you can try a little bit of this. It’s supposed to keep away reptiles and amphibians, and it usually does the trick. It’s good for about six or seven hours.”
“Thanks a lot,” Peter said, spraying a bit on his face and arms, “I really appreciate it. Do you happen to know where a city map would be? I’m not really looking for anywhere specific, I just want to get my bearings.”
“Hmmm…” the man thought for a minute, “If you go down through Old Bayona to Inglestein Memorial Park, they should have a map somewhere in there. You just want to keep going through Harriet, then take a left once you reach Rodriguez, then a right on Manzetti, and you’ll be in Old Bayona. From there, the park is just a few blocks down, straight ahead on Manzetti, right on the edge of Old Bayona and bordering Kaufmansburg. There’ll be signs too, so you shouldn’t miss it.”
‘Wow,’ Peter thought, ‘My grandfather wasn’t kidding about this city being a mishmash of different cultures.’
He had the man repeat the directions, gave up, and then had him write them down. He apologized, thanked him again, and then went to the end of the street, which was Ferez, and saw the turn for Harriet. Proceeding down Harriet, he heard a loud farting sound and turned with disgust to see an extremely fat wolf in a beat-up old vest dropping his cargo shorts and squatting slightly next to a fire hydrant, only about fifteen feet or so away from him. The wolf’s massive gray-haired buttocks separated as he lifted his long tail, his shorts around his ankles. Another huge fart blasted from his butt crack as he began peeing all over the hydrant, urine splattering as he sighed with relief and emptied his bladder. Peter wrinkled his nose and grimaced as the nasty-smelling fart cloud drifted away from the wolf’s butt and into his nose, the wolf completely oblivious and uncaring to all around him as a large fresh turd slid out of his butt hole. More fresh plops followed, dung oozing like mud onto the sidewalk and forming a pile as the wolf continued sighing, pooping and peeing. Then, another blast of flatulence, nastier this time, and Peter covered his suffering nose as he watched in fascinated horror as a teenage boy, no older than himself began to slide, smeared from head to toe in wolf poop, from between the hairy cheeks. The wolf did not seem to notice that he was excreting someone, having finished peeing, he simply continued defecating and pushing the human out of his anus. Little by little, the teenager emerged; finally landing with a disgusting splash in the middle of the huge dung pile the wolf had been producing. He sat up as more plops of poop fell from the wolf’s butt into the pile, then climbed out of the muck when the wolf had finally finished moving his bowels a few seconds later, finishing with a grimace and another nasty fart in the poor teen’s face. The wolf looked around and growled. Remembering the warning from earlier and unable to decide if the enormous fatty of a wolf was smaller than a bear, Peter ducked into a nearby alley before the wolf saw him.
“Damn, no tp!” the wolf growled as he finished glancing around the area. He shrugged and pulled up his cargo pants over his grimy butt crack, his fat buttocks spilling over the top of them as he walked off, farting some more.
“Hey, you in the alley, you can come out now,” said the freshly excreted boy with an Upper-Class British accent, “He’s gone now.”
“Thank God!” said Peter, coming out of the alleyway.
“You were probably right to hide, you know,” the boy said, “He might’ve tried to use you for toilet paper otherwise. I’ve seen it happen before with plenty of other animals after they’ve pooped. They just grab the nearest human and wipe away! Ha ha ha.”
Peter responded with some nervous laughter of his own.
“Now, would you mind terribly if I walked with you a ways, wherever you happen to be going?” the boy asked, “They should have public toilets somewhere around here.”
“I suppose not,” Peter said, trying to ignore the feces smeared from head to toe all over his companion, “I’m heading through Old Bayona to Inglestein Memorial Park, looking for a city map.”
“Ah, Inglestein is lovely, I’ve been there twice myself,” the boy said, “Old Bayona has good food, if you’re looking to eat, but is a little crowded in my opinion. Still, they’ll definitely have toilets there, and hopefully showers as well.”
“Isn’t that standard?” Peter asked.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” the boy said, as they made their way into Old Bayona, “But that’s not always the case, unfortunately.”
Red-roofed buildings and clotheslines, and the intoxicating aroma of Italian food from every corner were what Peter would remember about Old Bayona. Miniature vineyards and street side theatre thrived together, separate as they were in style. It was a combination of old and new world Italian, tiny replicas of famous monuments and sculptures displayed in store and restaurant windows, a dozen accents, North and South, Venetian and Neapolitan, filling the air. Admittedly it was rather crowded, as both animals and people rushed up and down through the narrow streets, but thankfully the signs to the park indicated that Peter proceed directly ahead, so he had little fear of getting lost in the wild outpour of culture that was Old Bayona.
“What do you think?” his companion asked him as they continued on, “Rather crowded, you’ll agree, but the food is simply divine, I assure you.”
“It’s fascinating,” Peter said, “It’s like all of Italy mixed up in one corner of town.”
“Italy?” his companion asked, “What Quarter is that located in?”
“Um… it used to be in the West Quarter,” Peter lied.
“Oh, well that’s too bad; it sounds very exotic,” the boy replied.
Finally they came across some public restrooms as they reached the end of Manzetti Street and the corner of Hauser. A salamander emerging from the Men’s room grimaced as he passed by the two of them, and Peter remembered he was wearing the anti- predator cologne. That, and the salamander probably didn’t enjoy the smell of wolf poop.
“Well, there should be some showers in here… yes, it looks like there are,” the boy corrected himself as a human woman emerged from the women’s restroom, her clothes dripping wet and smelling of soap, “This is where we part ways, then. Nice chatting with you… I’m James, by the way.”
“Peter,” Peter replied.
“Well, Peter, it was nice talking with you,” James said, “I’ll see you around then.”
He went into the restroom and Peter continued making his way towards the park. It was only a few more blocks down, and he knew he’d found it when he saw the concrete wall at the entrance, proclaiming in golden lettered relief, “Inglestein Memorial Park.” It was a fine little park, benches surrounding a fountain in the middle, and a brick path leading to a large statue of a human naval captain who must have been Inglestein. Peter decided to give it a closer look as soon as he found the city map. Wandering into the park, he couldn’t help but chuckle as he spotted the rules and regulations sign that said, “3. Please keep our park clean. Littering is prohibited and all defecation must be performed away from the sidewalks, benches, and monuments.”
‘You wouldn’t see that in a park back home,’ he thought.
Passing a row of benches, one on which sat a family of giraffes, and on another lay a bloated, snoring aardvark, Peter came across two maps, one for the park and another for the city.
“Finally!” Peter said aloud to himself, “Now let’s see where we are…”
Inglestein was in the South Quarter, Orange District, and nearby Kaufmansburg extended into the edge of the Purple District. There was also the Green District, containing Hernandez and Mindiri, several miles east of where he was, it looked like. Not that he was any good with judging distances. Also in the Purple District were Yoshida and Pazu. Hmmm… Yoshida was probably a Japanese area, but Pazu? He had no idea how to place that one. He examined more of the map, and reasoned that his grandfather might have been in the East Quarter, probably the Blue District, because there was a location with a name reminiscent of Chinese (not that he could pronounce it) and an even more complex one that he reasoned could be Welsh or Gaelic. If the former, it would make sense why his grandfather had met that Welsh person there. There was also a Russian-sounding location in a Yellow District, next to one that was probably Dutch or something…
Peter stopped reading the map as he felt a huge pair of hairy arms grab him from behind and lift him upwards. He looked up and found himself staring into the face of an enormous raccoon.

Mochi the raccoon was a member of the amateur sumo-wrestling league in Yoshida in the Purple District. He had decided to take a stroll through Inglestein Park to get some fresh air and clear his mind before tomorrow’s match. He wasn’t particularly worried about his opponent, who was a low-ranked opossum, but he had a tradition of trying to relax as much as possible before the tournament began. Since Inglestein wasn’t very far from Yoshida, being only a short bus ride into the Orange District, he had decided that it was as good a place as any to spend the afternoon. Dressing in his traditional kimono and sandals (though he wasn’t professional, he enjoyed the traditional dress), he got on the bus and headed off towards the park. When he got there and his stomach started grumbling, he decided there was no harm in grabbing some lunch, since he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Heading for the park map to see if there were any good restaurants nearby, he decided to save himself the trouble and eat the nearby human instead.

Peter attempted to squirm and kick his way out of the raccoon’s grip as he was shoved into its salivating mouth. It was no use, however, as the raccoon was as strong as he was big. Shoved between the moist lips and into the opening of the throat, the uvula brushing his hair and forehead, he couldn’t help but think the raccoon looked more than a little like a sumo wrestler. Which, he concluded, wasn’t impossible given the proximity of Yoshida and the Purple District.
‘Great,’ he thought, as he slid deeper into the esophagus, ‘I’m being eaten for the first time and I’m about to pass through the innards of a sumo-wrestling animal. My life sucks.’
He felt the throat muscles push him forwards as the raccoon swallowed and smacked its lips, his saliva-covered body pulled into its tight esophagus as he was pushed down into its belly. A short stretch of slimy, pink, fleshy tube propelled him downwards with a nasty squelching suction on all sides, and in a matter of seconds he found himself sliding out the other side and landing face first in a huge chamber of pink moisture and warmth, slimy and fleshy and wide enough for him to stretch out in: the raccoon’s stomach.
He turned himself around and sat down, feeling a few drops of saliva drip on him from the opening of the esophagus just above him. Examining his surroundings, he found pinkish walls of slimy flesh on all sides, and wrinkled his nose as he found the chamber did indeed smell a little sourly of spoiled milk, as his grandfather had described. A gigantic “BUURRRRPP!” of a belch echoed off the surrounding walls, causing them to quiver as the wall at the front of the stomach caved in and back out several times, and he realized the raccoon was patting its bloated belly.
‘A great big bellyful of me,’ Peter realized, with some awe and bewilderment. It was such a strange, obvious thought, yet it all seemed so surreal to be inside the stomach of another living thing.
Peter had very little to do, actually, as he sat there and waited as patiently as possible in the belly of the raccoon to be passed into the next section of its digestive tract. He had turned around and examined the entrance to the intestines, a sphincter of flesh tightly clenched against entry until it was time. As he waited and listened to the continual belching of the raccoon he couldn’t help but notice that he was also moving. He could literally feel the entire body shifting around him as the raccoon walked and then sat down somewhere. He did not, however, have any way of measuring how far the animal had gone, so he could only tell that he had been in motion for a time. This motion of the animal was complimented occasionally with the motions of the stomach itself, sometimes a slight rocking when the creature moved or patted its full belly, and other times the organ would leap into motion, churning and spinning and tossing Peter around, forcing him against the slimy walls and sides, and twice turning him upside down entirely. He had no way of measuring time, so he had no idea how long these instances of movement lasted, but he was surprised when the opening to the intestines expanded and the stomach rocked violently, shoving him forcibly through the opening.
There was no sense of time here, inside this warm, slimy, living thing, Peter concluded, as he was forced into the small intestine with a sucking and a wet pop. Seconds, minutes, and hours seemed of little consequence, and in this tight intestinal space he had no way of moving his arm to check his watch. Not that it would have mattered anyway, as he had noticed it hadn’t been working properly when he had checked it in the stomach, its digital face gone entirely blank, its battery apparently having ceased functioning. It could just as easily have been two hours as thirty minutes, so strangely did time seem to shift in here!
He was pushed over slimy little bumps of villi, which did indeed seem to resemble an eggcup mattress, albeit one that no one could ever be able to fall asleep on. It was like having hundreds of tiny udders painting his body with a slimy secretion, wriggling above, under, and around him as he rounded the curves of the small intestine. It didn’t smell any better in here than it did in the stomach: there was a faint odor of flatulence that Peter knew would be getting much stronger, and he held his breath as he rounded the bend up ahead and saw the entrance to the large bowel squelch open to accept him.
Once again the body forced him through a sphincter, this time into the colon. He felt the ring of flesh brush over him as he slid through the opening and into the first portion of the animal’s large intestine. The stench hit him almost immediately. It was everywhere, there was no avoiding it: even though he had slightly more room to move than in the small intestine, he could not maneuver his arm to cover his nose and even if he could, he doubted if it would help very much. There was feces smeared around the sides of the intestine and the smell of flatulence was certainly prevalent. He then got to experience another part of his grandfather’s story as he felt the intestine shake and warm, filthy wind blast over him as the raccoon farted. He waited several minutes as the intestine squelched and contracted, pushing him out of the cecum and around the first bend, where he waited another few minutes and was treated to another long raccoon fart before he was pushed around again, into the descending colon. The smell became worse as the dung around the sides became significantly thicker and stickier, like moving through a combination of mud and peanut butter, smelling entirely of feces. As he finally found himself in the raccoon’s rectum, he came face to face with a huge fecal wall, as the feces behind him began to compact and thicken, and he found himself blockaded between two huge walls of dung. The intestines squelched again, and Peter knew it wouldn’t be but a moment or two longer before the raccoon had to poop.

“Hey, good luck in the ring tomorrow, eh?” said Larry the opossum to his opponent as he passed by him in the stable. Like Mochi he wore only a 16th century-style loincloth and sandals now that they were back at the heya. Unlike professional sumo, it was not uncommon here for heya companions to compete against each other in the opening rounds of the tournament.
“Yeah, good luck to you too, pal,” Mochi said, “We both know I’m gonna cream you, though.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Larry said, “Prepare to sniff my butt tomorrow.” Unlike traditional sumo on Earth, sumo in Mirroropolis allowed for the humiliating of one’s opponent after a bout, and was not entirely clear outside of physical injury or harassment on what that humiliation could entail. Thus, for Larry, it featured a little gassy face sitting. Mochi had also seen Larry humiliate human prey, before eating them and after a big meal, in a similar manner.
“Ugh… I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mochi said, rubbing his groaning gut, “I’ve gotta dump a human I ate earlier.”
“Nice,” grinned Larry, “Beat you tomorrow then.”
“Not in your lifetime, pal!” Mochi taunted back as he ran for the toilets, grabbing his fat, groaning raccoon belly.
Ducking into the nearest stall, he lifted the lid and sat down over the wooden hole, his butt cheeks parting as he proceeded to empty his bowels into the huge ceramic bowl beneath.

The raccoon’s poop flowed downward and out as Peter felt himself pushed little by little down towards the animal’s anus. Just a few more seconds and he’d be free! Flatulence sputtered and blasted around him as the raccoon dropped his enormous load. Several globs of dung fell away before his eyes as Peter saw light through the anal opening and with a squeeze, felt his head pushed through. He was wedged between two huge round furry walls that he realized were the raccoon’s buttocks. He stared straight down into the giant pile of raccoon waste as the animals continued relieving itself, pushing him little by little out of its anus, its butt cheeks parted just enough to allow him to slide through. A constant, disgusting squelching sound filled the air as the raccoon pooped, and Peter was pushed gradually but surely out: arms, torso, and finally legs, as he slid on out of the raccoon’s butt hole and landed face first in the dung pile below. Groaning and turning around, he saw the giant raccoon rump that he had just come out of- completely naked except for a strip of cloth across the top-and worse, the still defecating anus, as more dung splattered over his head and shirt. He was so filthy at this point he didn’t particularly care as more poop oozed out of the furry butt above him, coupled with several enormous farts that were amplified by the ceramic tub in which he sat. He waited for the smelly, filthy process to end as a few small turds exited the raccoon’s butt, followed by a small, squeaky fart. A pudgy, muscular arm reached underneath, clutching a wad of toilet paper in its claw, and Peter watched as the raccoon wiped itself repeatedly, then dropped the toilet paper into the bowl, which landed at his feet. The claw reached under again, holding several more sheets and again the raccoon wiped its anus and butt crack, before dropping the toilet paper. Peter watched as the enormous fat gray butt got up off the toilet seat, seeing the long, ringed tail fall back overtop of the buttocks as it did so. The raccoon turned and looked down into the bowl, grinning ear to pointy ear at Peter from behind the black mask of its gray face then turned and walked off without a word.
Peter stood up and climbed over the side of the bowl, smearing feces all over the seat and floor as he made his way out of the toilet. He saw the raccoon washing its paws at the sink, and noticed that it was indeed some sort of sumo wrestler, wearing only a loincloth and sandals.
“Hey!” Peter felt compelled to ask as the raccoon finished washing its paws and began to dry them on a nearby towel, “So that’s it?”
“You must be from the West Quarter,” the raccoon chuckled, “Yeah, that’s it. You were tasty. I’d eat you again.” He turned and walked away.
Peter just stood there for a minute, unsure of what to make of it all, then turned and began looking for a shower to clean all the filth off of himself. Another nasty stench filled his nostrils as he passed by one of the stalls, and he saw a pair of hairy legs that must have belonged to some sort of sumo fox. The showers were actually in another section of the bathroom and thankfully unoccupied. There was only hot water and no shampoo, but it was nice to have a soap dispenser instead of bar soap. He hated to think what sort of foul regions a used bar of soap might have cleaned in this place. Of course, there was also a variety of different hair around the drain.
‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Peter thought as washed the raccoon poop off of him and his clothes, ‘I can see what grandpa meant when he said there wasn’t anything else quite like it.’
The mirrors were in the main section of the bathroom, and the stalls were unoccupied when he returned. Sure enough, he was able to climb over the sinks and right on through the mirror, and ended up quite unremarkably in his bedroom. For a second, he had to wonder if it had really happened at all. His clothes were somehow dry, and there was no remaining poop or fecal smell to speak of, but he felt a conviction that it had all most certainly been real. He tested this conviction by putting his hand against the mirror. It was solid glass! Perhaps he had just imagined it after all? But, remembering the sneaker, he turned his back to the mirror and reached his hand behind him, and was shocked as it went through were the glass should have been. When he looked behind him, his back still turned, he saw that his hand did indeed go through!
Peter lay awake that night, checking his watch, which had thankfully resumed working. 1:30 A.M. and he still hadn’t fallen asleep. The more he reflected on his experience, the more it fascinated him! How many people would have such a thing happen to them in a lifetime, after all?
‘Tomorrow,’ he thought, as he finally began to drift off, ‘tomorrow I have to go back.’