A thunderous blast erupted from his backside. Across the lot, students jerked their heads up, scanning the clear sky.
Then the punks with the dyed hair caught on, their shaking phone hands zooming in. "Holy crap!" one yelped, voice cracking. "You freaking—"
The campus gate fell into a stunned hush.
Eric froze, rooted to the spot, his face darkening to coal. A warm, sticky mess bloomed in his pants—unspeakable, indescribable, like a year's worth of a girl's worst cramps hitting at once with no pad in sight. He could already smell it.
Every eye locked on him, wide and horrified, zeroing in on the yellow streak soaking through his pants.
Then the crowd exploded.
"Holy hell, holy hell—he's nuts! He actually crapped himself!"
"Again! That one was loud—thought it was thunder!"
"It's leaking—look at the soup!"
"Stop, stop—I'm gonna hurl my lunch!"
"I can smell it from here—oh God!"
"First time I've seen someone shit on the street—and it's liquid? At least make it solid, man!"
