Jim unbuckled his cargo pants, pulled up his shirt-tails like a piano maestro and slumped with a loud sigh: fartissimo. While he waited Jim attempted to check his emails on the tablet Ingrid had bought him as a Christmas-Birthday present on behalf of their oblivious children. With his other hand he tried to hold the door shut; every few seconds the sound of loud footsteps or drunken, violent nuns on their way to cage-fight at Lourdes made him clench his back passage and hold his breath.
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