Subway fountain
It's late. I get on a subway, and take a quick inventory of the other passengers. There is a man with wobbly jowls and a woman with bright red pants, but nothing else that really stands out. There is certainly nothing to be concerned about.
I stand facing the door, and avoid eye contact with the other riders by staring at the dark blur of the wall going by outside the window. My feet are set about shoulder width apart, and my toes are turned slightly in. A stance from old karate lessons giving me stability against the motion of the train. I'm lost in a sad reverie over the lack of interesting happenings of the dying month.
Though there have been no stops, the car I am in suddenly seems to get crowded. "Hang on." I say. "There haven't been any stops."
I look about, and I see people who, from my inventory, I recall as having been about half-way down the car. I look down there.
The central section of the car has emptied, except for one man, penis is hand, spraying a fountain of urine across the train.
I walk down the train to where the pisser, finished his performance, is now half-lying on the bench seat that runs along the wall of the train. I carefully pick my way through the wet mess he has left on the floor. "Hey!" I say, slapping him awake, "You!"
"Glrwareerrr..." he asks.
"Did you wash your hands after all this pissing you did here?"
"Hrrrnnggn."
"You didn't, did you?"
"Jjjejjjj?"
"Dirty bugger. Don't go touching people with your dirty hands."
Cheered by the other riders, I walk back to my part of the train and resume looking out the window.