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Here’s the sink that used to drain so well.

Resting upon its highest ridge, left of the doming silver faucet knobs (polished to mirror your fun-house reflection): two tubes of Hydrocortisone—ever-present for the Master’s ever-itchy ass. One tube’s almost flat; the other’s chock-full of that mysterious white stuff.

This powder green (powdered with dust?) sink and matching toilet are contained within a restroom the size of a Port-O-Potty. Incidentally, you’ve lived in studio apartments no bigger than four Port-O-Potties cubically configured together.

Both the toilet seat and its cover’ve been white-plastic replaced.

Lots of green in this house—the wall paper, the bathrooms, the carpet—lots the color of money. Not incidentally because the Master’s an accountant, maybe?

After the Draino, a mountain of black-grey bubbles erupt from the sink’s drain. Its stench smells deadly. Making-you-cough deadly—after, say, a fifteen mile sprint. Around and around Chernobyl. Making your eyes heavy—after, say, a night’s too-many margaritas.

So you try the entire contents of Liquid Plumber “Foaming Pipe Snake.” For the stench, you empty a can of Oust “Outdoor Scent” air sanitizer. You shut the door. And you wait the thirty minutes, as directed.

If the stench and the lava-rock-like formation (still filling the sink) do not disappear before the Master comes down from upstairs for the day, you’ll have to call in a professional. And just to step through the front door, the professional will charge you one hundred dollars. Sure, the Master can afford it. Though, if you’re to blame—for the need of outside services—the Master’s sure to grumble. After all, you’re here only ‘cause you come cheap.

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