Sitting on the toilet with his pants at his ankles, Tom Hickerson cried out to the emptiness of his apartment in anguish. “Is anybody home?” He asked, knowing the answer was no, that he was the only person in the two-bedroom rental, and that he alone would be the only human alive to hear his own desperate pleas for someone to hand him another roll. He knew help wasn’t coming. This realization sank in as the toilet became cold on his thighs, and a little sticky. He was highly uncomfortable with that feeling, and also with the fact that this was his comeuppance, his smelly, lazy, quasi-planned comeuppance, because his roommates had both seen that the toilet paper needed to be replaced, and they both thought that they’d make Tom do it this one fucking time. It was only a matter of time before he did a sad little half-waddle to the cupboard in the hallway to get another roll; but that would be giving in, and Tom, being a stubborn little bastard, held on a moment more. At press time, Tom had his pants up again and there was still no roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, because Tom is an asshole, and he used a Kleenex.