How much?

As you lock the door behind you, you breathe a sigh of relief.

“I should’ve just pissed at the bar,” you think as you hurriedly fumble at the zipper of your pants. You’ve had to go for the last seven blocks, but your New Year’s Resolution was to not urinate publicly after the “Poughkeepsie Incident” last Thanksgiving. You’re lucky that you found a place open this late with a bathroom you could use.

As you finally calm down, now relieving yourself of all the pressure you built up you take in this miracle bathroom. The room is starkly lit, the fluorescents above quietly buzzing overhead like a distant swarm of bees. The gray walls are covered in the typical black Sharpie scrawlings, some names and many obscenities.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?

To suck the Cock of the walk”

You’re quickly snapped out of your piss-induced stupor by the click-clack of something falling against the faux marble floor.

“Shit I must’ve dropped my wallet,” You whisper, as you squat down to pick up whatever fell. As you grasp at the floor, still reading the graffiti, you feel what must have fallen, a slip of paper with a cheap pen clipped to it.

“How much?” The paper reads. As you scan for where this note may have come from, you notice the 2.5” hole in the gray wall.