Someone flushed a plastic baggie with a crack rock and a pipe inside. Why let that go to waste? Nothing much else to do, now that you live in the sewer. A few bits of flint get that shit smoking. Hoarse throat, coughing. You've never felt so happy about anything in your life. This is what Leda must have felt like. Skull-fucked by a divine cloud. Made of swans and Jesus, man.
It doesn't last, and, fuck, you're out of crack in no time. Maybe another day.
Weeks pass and nothing. Just rats and stink.
No one is ever going to flush crack for you again. You begin to doubt it even was crack.
Having lost all hope of a good high ever coming your way again, the capricious toilet gods send you another offering: this time, a dime bag of weed washes up on the shit shore next to your sleeping spot! Score!
You rush to find the pipe but it's gone. In its place, there is a pack of cheese-flavored crackers, unopened. You eat them quickly with your brown-crusted fingers and they are so good. You don't get to eat above world food much anymore. Nothing as solid as this. Crunchy delight.
But the thought troubles you: who changed out the crackers for the pipe? Did you bring these down with you? No, no. The toilet gods are messing with you. Yeah, that must be it. You try to not worry about it, smoking your weed in phone book papers, but the thought keeps coming back. Who did it? Who stole your pipe? Maybe you will never know.
After a couple of days, you find that your dented soda can with the top jaggedly torn off, the one that you use to collect rain water in from the storm drain, is gone. Just an old shoe with no sole left in its place!
A week goes by, and, on awakening after a fitful sleep, you look up to see there is now a Justin Bieber poster stuck to the wall where you sleep! The edges are all brown and sticky. Shit paste? Oh, god, but look at him. You can't help it. Just looking, deep, deep, until your eyes glaze over, and you lose it, sewer sludge lubricant all over for that diarrheal ass-fuck feeling.