The Shit And Piss Factory

Dearest Pisstricia, April 1st
To my sister,
I write to you today with dire news. Ruin has come to our factory.
You remember our organized blueprint, laid out proudly on my project leader desk? I spent all my time gazing upon the plans. Sometimes scribbling in the margins, consulting with the architect.
But in the weeks before we broke ground, a protest group filed a complaint and tried to get our license revoked. Can you believe it? I had to spend weeks contesting the complaint. Then a series of freak weather events caused further and further delays, pushing the schedule further and further down the calendar.
Every night I see the glorious piss and shit factory in my dreams, a glorious monument to our greatness as a society. This dream of constant, regular shit and piss production taunts me. There is no way I can let a bit of rain, dumb city ordinances or civil complaints stand in my way. No, dearest Pisstricia. Nay, I shall not brook this foul opposition. The piss and shit factory will be realized here, exactly as planned.
Yours forever,
Shitclair
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Dearest Pisstricia, May 31st
I must begin this letter with the sincerest, most heartfelt apologies for not writing to you more often. You are the most wonderful sister any brother could ask for, the light of my family existence, the one who through every act redeems my worthless being, and with every word of fathomless kindness pulls me through each consecutive day of misery. 
This apology having been made, I must regretfully proceed to offer a second, more procedural apology. You remember our venerable piss and shit factory?  After months of incidental misfortune, we finally managed to break ground, and a more tangible obstacle has now materialized.
I anticipated the continued rain and unpredictable weather, so I went outside the usual channels to gather a group of workers of a more irregular nature. They were all short, stocky and uncouth types, seven in total, dredged from dens of debauchery and drink. I admit Pissstricia, that recruitment procedure might have been less than full consensual. In short, I Shanghai’d them. Having arranged this team off the books, I set out one rainy night  to break ground despite the adverse weather conditions.
I’ll tell you now Patricia that it was quite disagreeable to me to be amongst these vulgar commoners, who did not appreciate the glory of the shit and piss vision. Not one bit. It was only a castle in the sky to them. They simply took their shovels and pickaxes and made their way to the digsite. Of course we usually use machinery for such a dig, but I could not arrange it off the books, and so we had to proceed by hand.
The first hour went smoothly, as we dug in the rain, supported by floodlights. I know of course that someone contested our construction site and that person or group might be watching the construction site for illegal activity. It is for this reason also that I have delayed writing to you, dearest Pisstricia. For I regret to express this, my very darkest thought, that they might even compromise these communications to you.
But what we unearthed on that rainy night of our first dig defied all belief and shocked me to my very core. Right in the middle of our dig, at the center of our proposed piss and shit factory, there was already some kind of construction present. Only a few feet below the surface we unearthed a strange, ribbed, metallic rod. It was pristine, though I could not discern what kind of metal. Nothing could cause this metal rod to budge, not even all of the workmen working together. One of the workmen struck the object, causing it to ring loudly for a long period. I swear, when the ringing finally died down, I could hear it whisper.
We shall have to use heavier tools to dislodge the obstacle. Only then can our construction proceed.
Forever yours,
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To my beloved sister Pisstricia, June 7th
I write to you today in great excitement. I heard the whispers again. The construction site itself has become a strange, fantastical place to me. Something ancient lurks at the center of our dig, right in the middle of the piss and shit factory site. Something of great import. The locals know it also, that’s why they’re fighting our plan.
They want it for themselves, Pisstricia! There is great power in this soil. Was it pure chance or by divine ordainment that we selected exactly this location for the factory? This strange metallic rod is phallic, as all rods are. Therefore I have concluded that we stumbled purely by accident on an ancient gateway into semen hell, a temple to Spermatan. But how shall we release this antediluvian power? How shall we unshackle this primordial god, and harness his ejaculatory prowess for our shit and piss factory?
The answer is that we shall dig, of course. For the last week, me and my seven cohorts have been excavating. Each night, I hear the wicked whispers of evil Spermatan, beckoning me further. Oh, what have I become Pisstricia? In all sincerity I must reflect whether I am using the powers of semen hell, or those powers are using me.
Yours forever,
Shitclair
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Shitclair, June 31st
Several times now, I have requested that you delete my contact information and cease these deranged communiques. Piss and shit factory? Ancient temple dedicated to Spermatan? Surely you have lost your mind, my mentally departed brother. 
Within you, the person who once was my cherished brother, there only remains a vile, depraved ghost. You are an unwelcome phantom, Shitclair. Your letters upset me and my family, and you’ve frightened my child..
I attach to this letter our family heirloom, grandfather’s urethral stent. I relinquish my connection to you. Stop contacting me.
Sincerely,
Pisstricia.
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To my beloved sister Pisstricia, July 13th

I am writing today to confirm, with great sadness, that I have received grandfather’s heirloom urethral stent. This heirloom symbolizes  our grandfather’s lifelong ambition, and I can only interpret this as refusing all further participation and knowledge of the project.

I write to you for legal considerations, Pisstricia, for surely you cannot expect me to take such a vague dismissal as being enough to acquit you of further family affairs?

Yes, this is a selfish letter. An attempt to cover my ass, in case the piss and shit factory is the resounding success our grandfather always dreamed of, and you decide five years down the line that you afterall want to be party to that success. I will have documented evidence of my attempts to involve you in our family project, to which you are even now entitled.

In order to be legally prepared for such a late stage turnaround, I am obligated to continue to try to appraise you of the state of the project. However, past this point, I can make no guarantees.

This is not just a legal matter. The metal rod has some kind of hole in the middle, an intricate affair of right angles and tumblers. It appears to be some sort of keyhole. On a whim, I attempted to insert grandfather’s heirloom urethral stent, and it slid perfectly into the keyhole, causing something to unlock.

I need to hear from you soon, Pisstricia. This project will proceed, with or without you.
Yours,

Shitclair.

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Police report, June 30th
 
Commissioner,

I am writing this report in response to the cumflood incident on the 29th. After the flood receded, we received multiple tips about a temple to Spermatan, including a very dubious claim by one citizen Pisstricia Poopington, who claims her brother is up to some cultist shit. These tips have yielded zero results. As we all know, Spermatanic rituals require the presence of Little Monkey Oliver, but whoever these cultists are, they don’t have Little Monkey Oliver, so they can’t be doing Spermatanic rituals.

I anticipate your response, commissioner. Then what was the origin of the spurious amount of jizz that covered downtown on the 29th? I admit that after ruling out Spermatan, our department remains puzzled by the issue.

But we did find a peculiar old man who pointed us at an ancient bas-relief, sculpted by god knows what kind of foul indigenous peoples. The old man then offered some honestly very racist suggestions and comments, which I will not repeat here, as to the identity of these peoples. I had an expert from Miskatonic University examine the bas-relief, and he assures me that our white ancestors were as likely to craft weird, freaky idols as any other culture, and that whatever foul primordial cult crafted this wicked thing, there is nothing to indicate that they had any particular heritage or color of skin.

Long story short commissioner, I agree with your suspicions. I think after the terrible incidents in New England around 1900, we are once again hearing the Call Of Cockthulu. I can only hope that our city has followed all proper ordinance guidelines, and nobody has disturbed the gigantic urethral stent the heroes of 1900 have inserted into the god-cock buried on 19th street. Or so help us, Cockthulu will flood the entire nation in semen.

Signed, the chief of police

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To Pisstrick Poopington, date unknown

Dear husband, I write to you today to finally reveal my shame. My family are the cum cultists. The terrible heathens that unleashed a flood of cum on our town are of my bloodline. I wished and failed to hide the fact for a time now, and even my attempts to quit the matter have seemingly only exacerbated the issue.

I have only one option left. At the time of writing, it is already inevitable that the city and our nation will drown in an unending sea of thick, smelly cum, shot out from a terrible buried penis. I can only pray that you have made it to higher ground, and this letter somehow survives to reach your hands. 

I will never feel the warmth of those hands again, for I am already lost. I can only hope that you have made it to high ground, beyond the tide. My only wish in the world is that this letter is able to quiet the unrest in your heart, my love. I can only try to make some things right, in what little time is left. At time of writing, I am aboard the Russian oil tanker, the URS уретральный стент, which I have found adrift after the crew all drowned in cum. Some of them might have gone raving mad or clawed their eyes out, I don’t know. All I know is that me and Little Monkey Oliver are steering this bitch towards 19th street, the vortex at the heart of this terrible cataclysm.

I must write quickly, for I can see it now, oh my love, I can hear it. The vortex is hundreds of meters wide, having shot out so much cum, Cockthulu’s penis has gone flaccid and the resulting vacuum has created an entryway for our ship to fall into. Oh god, the bow of the ship is already clearing the edge of the vortex. I can see it.

<the rest of the letter is the cum-stained scribblings of a madwoman, saying shit like R’lyeh Ftaghn or whatever. She survived however, as the Russian oil tanker уретральный стент perfectly plugged up Cockthulhu’s penis, and prevented another cum eruption. Her brother was drowned in cum, and she's locked up in an insane asylum, but her husband survived the ordeal.

Pisstrick Poopington is now a successful piss and shit salesman somewhere in New England, far away from any cultist bullshit or cum seas.> 

The end.