Walter Wurx looked in the mirror, and saw someone else.
It’s not me, he thought, with a pang of sadness. It looks like me, but, how did I get so old? I don’t remember growing up.
Everything was a fog. One second he was young, in school, the next he was an adult living in a bedsitter, which made him think of bed-wetter, which made his bladder spasm, which made him hurry to the toilet, which made him dribble a little in his pants, which made him sob with frustration.
How did this happen? Where did my life go? Why can’t I remember my Mum and Dad? Why does the world seem so strange, so different? He had dreamed of 2-D landscapes, a flat world, a black and white life with a bottomless bladder full of piss.
Back at the mirror, Walter stared at his strange face. Does the mirror lie? Am I that haggard? Do my eyes water that much? Is my nose that red? He looked shell shocked, and melancholy. Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you here?
“Oh, I wish I knew who I was! Everything’s so confused!”
“You are a fictional character in a comic called Cheeky Weekly. You are a joke, an amusement for the masses. Cheeky was one of those bastards who was always popular with the crowd. Mean, and derogatory, small minded, picked on the weak, like you, Walter. When you were around he would always make some pun, or joke about urinating, imply gushing, waterfalls, leaks, and it would affect you greatly. You were usually drawn in hilarious fashion, with your eyes crossed, your legs crossed, hands crossed over your crotch. Readers laughed, guffawed with delight, almost pissed themselves, which made them giggle even more.”
A creature made of bubbles appeared behind the other Walter in the mirror.
Walter pissed himself from the fright.
“Who the hell are you, then?”
“I’m Mr Bubbles. I give three wishes. You have two left.”
“I-oh-you mean I can be normal? No more weak bladder if I wish it?”
“Your weak bladder defines you. It is your character. Without the weak bladder you will become…uninteresting, boring, as funny as a BBC2 documentary on the chemical reaction of bleach on a dirty floor. You will still have to….work, though. You are admired in specialized circles for your golden showers, and your dedication to the world of urine erotica, your determination to one up your competitors. Even now Mr Fual is calling up certain friends remarking in your utmost professionalism. You now are able to up your price. But, if you so wish, I can now stop you wetting the bed.”
“Yes, yes, wouldn’t that be marvelous? I might be able to go out, socialize, get a girlfriend.”
Walter knew he could never go to a pub, or a club, not with his damnable affliction. Wearing pull ups does not make you a desirable object of desire, and it’s not like he could have a woman over in this miserable dump, nor could he go to her place, not while he still wet the bed, not while he pissed himself like a little boy. And, that’s the crux right there. Little boy. He could not comprehend how he got from little boy to great big man, without any memories whatsoever.
He did have sex once in a while, but, mainly with women who were regulars in the small circle of those with a urine fetish. Pissers can’t be choosers, he thought.
“A wish could get you a girlfriend.”
“That’s rape. No-I wish-“
“Before you waste that precious wish, may I make a suggestion?”
“What is it?”
“Kegel exercises. They are very helpful for weak bladders. When you are urinating, try to stop mid flow, then begin urinating again, then stop. Keep that up every day, and eventually your bladder will strengthen. It does seem to work.”
“Work means just that, work, and I do enough work. I wish my bladder to function normally. How’s that?”
“Done. You will never wet the bed again, unless you go out on a bender, in which case, all bets are off.”
“Thank you, Mr Bubbles! Thank you!”
“Oh, I wish everything was back to normal. I-“
“Can’t be done. Out of the question, I’m afraid. And, even if it could be done, think about what that entails, Walter. You would go back from whence you came, Cheekly Weekly. You would be ink on paper. Sometimes crude, hastily drawn, sometimes way in the background of a small panel, barely perceptible. And all everyone would do when they see your red, googly eyed, furiously sweating, panic stricken face was laugh until they cried, chortle at the kid with the weak bladder, the kid who just cannot handle any words that pertain to any liquid, the kid who, though not drawn in any panel explicitly, but it is alluded to, is deftly implied, pisses himself every day, and night. You want to go back to that, Walter? You’re continent, now. You are free in a sense. You can go out and have fun, Walter. Think of it. Fun! When was the last time you had that, eh?”
When I was young, he thought. When I was a little boy.
“Why can’t everything go back to normal, if I so wish it?”
“He won’t let me.”
“God, formally known as Stanley Cushing”
“God has a name?”
“God has a sickness.”
“Oh,hmm, very well, then, I wish all my clients piss tasted like strawberry milkshake.”
“It is done.”
Mr. Bubbles vanished, and Walter went back to the mirror. As he looked at his face, now looking more, and more relaxed, he dropped his pants, and pull-up diaper, stepped out of the pull-up, picked it up off the floor, threw it in the trash. Then he laughed, shook his head, remembering, got out the package of pull-ups he hid in the bottom of the wicker hamper, took out a clean one, put it on.
He laughed again, this time with happiness, and joy. Pulled on his pants, left his bedsit, and went out to buy some real underwear.