She knew she was taking a risk by using the boys' bathroom, but she was really drunk, and definitely unable to make the trip up the stairs to get to the girls' room. She'd heard stories about the bathroom monitors at the university, inbred mutants wandering the campus, but thought they were just stories. She'd had many arguments with people about this. First, nobody had ever seen one in person (the believers would add "and lived to tell about it"). Second, the very idea of paying someone money to patrol bathrooms for the very purpose of segregation seemed antiquated and extravagant to her. Anyway, this wasn't even what she was worried about, as she ducked into the fourth stall. Her real source of distress was the vile state of the bathroom. It was disgusting. Second to last, this was the only stall even close to clean. Every guy on the floor claimed only to use "number four"; if that was the case, she wondered, how did the others always end up destroyed?
After locking the stall door, she was about to resign herself to a life wrought with venereal disease, when she heard the bathroom door open. She quickly sat down on the toilet, and hugged her legs up to her body, hoping to disguise her presence. She wondered why she hadn't heard her friend, whom she had stationed at the door, warn her of the incoming visitor, but soon forgot about it, as she heard his heavy stride. The bathroom tiles crunched beneath his powerful, deliberate footfalls. She heard two powerful inhalations, like an animal catching a scent, followed by a declaration, spoken in a low, gravelly tone: "Hrmmm... smells like verjina in here!" This utterance was immediately followed by a crash, a yelp, and then another cry, as the door to her stall was kicked in, and she reacted in surprise at the door, and then in greater surprise at the man standing on the other side of it.
He was tall, probably around seven feet. He was dressed in traditional, depression-era rural clothing: dirty coveralls, a torn flannel shirt, a well-worn cowboy hat, and brown work boots. He was carrying a kerosene lantern in one hand, and a sawed-off shotgun in the other. These were all things that took her a few minutes to notice, as she could not quickly remove her focus from his face. He was old; his wrinkles almost enveloped all of his facial features, except for one spot where they relented: the smooth, blank spot where his left eye should have been. "Someone's in here," she cried.
"Yeah, someone what shouldn't be," he replied in the same low growl as before. "I's been sent by the powers that be to right this wrong and send you back to the hell what you been sent from, darlin'."
"But I didn't do anything! The stalls are private, why should it matter who uses them?" she reasoned. He thought about this for a few seconds, and until he had figured out the answer.
"'Cause I'mun shoot any woman what uses this bathroom." This seemed to satisfy him, and he smiled as he cocked his shotgun.
"I just don't see how 'I'm gonna shoot you' is an excuse to shoot me," she stammered as he lowered the twin-barrels to her face.
Her last feelings were those of regret. She didn't regret her decision, but rather the fact that the last words she would hear would be "git 'r done!"
Her friend had heard and seen it all, but was too terrified to do anything about it. The man, or whatever he was, soon finished her off, for "aidin' and abettin' a strumpet." The halls of the university dorm still echo, to this day, with the screams of that night.
"Git 'r done!"