The toilet is still hung on the wall above the bar, a place of great honour -- a reminder of the Ceramic Panic of 83.

The toilet is still hung on the wall above the bar, a place of great honour -- a reminder of the Ceramic Panic of 83.

¡Viva el Pánico Cerámico! (Salute the toilet seat.)

The bartender gives a small, approving nod in your direction.

My curiosity is sated. [Leave]

The bartender shrugs and returns to her chores.

The toilet hangs above the bar, glinting dingily in the low light.

From across the room the bartender notices your curious gaze.

"What's the story here?"

"83, Quisach v. Recreación." She sets her elbows on the counter. "The referee sent Peña off on a bullshit call... a riot ensued, as per tradition. Someone ripped a toilet right out of the washroom wall and chucked it at the Recreación supporters."

Even the pelota ball, tossed back and forth by forces greater than itself, occasionally gets the chance to crunch against the nose of those who would try to catch it.

You remember a similar dark smear above the left eyehole of Recreación's mascot head -- the thing on your head right now.

It descended like a vile comet from the stands above: white, planetary, drawing its own aureola of discoloured liquid as it spun. Only in the instant before impact did you realise what it was...

It's beautiful...

Eyes fixed on its hypnotic descent, a fragment of the dim past hurtles towards and through you, a glimpse of the last image seen through papier-mâché eye holes.

Countless injuries were reported in the aftermath of the incident, and two fatalities confirmed.

Duck, duck, duck, DUCK.

Instinctively you bring your hands to your face, but it was only a fragment of the dim past hurtling towards you, a glimpse of the last image seen through papier-mâché eye holes.

Quisach's pride, the moment it all peaked, when all the madness and meaning in the world swelled into one glorious, unstoppable wave...

ON THAT DAY IN 83, IT TRANSFORMED INTO A PROTEST AGAINST THE CORRUPTING INFLUENCE OF THE LIBERAL MENACE: A PORCELAIN PRAXIS.

They were just blowing off steam. Bit of a brawl never hurt anyone!

You remember a similar dark smear above the left eyehole of Recreación's mascot head.

Impossible. Awesome. Un-interceptable.

It's a misty, watercoloured memory for her.

"I don't want to know." [Leave.]

On the wall above, mounted like the taxidermied head of a bull moose, is a toilet.

Scratched and yellowed porcelain, a notable smudge on the lip of the seat... brown-ish.

The smudge is not what it appears to be. Not the most obvious suspect, at least.

Is this something to do with the Ceramic Panic?

This is the Ceramic Panic -- in all its stained, chipped porcelain glory.

"Don't worry -- the smudge on the rim is just blood."

I'm a student of the unknown. I must know, even if it causes me psychic damâge.

From across the room the bartender notices your gaze, and the expression on your face.

Disgusting.

Not all questions need answers. [Leave.]

And yet patrons line up along the bar everyday, sipping in ignorance.

Do not entertain further investigations of what the smudge may be. It's safe to assume that you don't want to know.