More vomit poured forth from the senator’s mouth, filling the filthy toilet with the afternoon’s lunch break.
He sat crookedly on the floor, clutching the sides of the porcelain bowl, seven days’ worth of floor-urine soaking into his trousers.
He groaned, sighed, felt more vomit coming up his esophagus.
Burning bile spilled out the senator’s throat. He flushed the toilet, wiped his mouth with his tie.
The morning’s senate committee hearing was not going well for Senator Raymond: he was being exposed, he was tripping over his words, regurgitating the truth when he should have been lying. Senator Raymond was ruining himself.
‘All my secrets,’ he said into the bowl, and another bout of vomiting followed his words.
Once more he flushed the toilet.
His head jerked into the swirling water. He pulled back, but Senator Raymond was stuck, the water rising, his face trapped in the toilet.
His tie—he had flushed his tie.
He yanked and struggled, the water covering his mouth and nose. The senator panicked, gasped.
His vision blurred, turned grey, turned black; water filling and filling his lungs.
He ceased kicking, stopped thrashing his arms. Senator Raymond lay unmoving, with his head in a congressional toilet bowl.
In light of this disastrous event, the senate committee debated whether to adjourn for the day.