You sigh, back aching, as your ill fitted denim boiler suit tugs and stretches in all of the least comfortable places. Somehow, some way, you've managed to land a job at the worst preforming highschool in the city. Underfunded, overcrowded and a cesspit of drugs and gang violence. More kids end up pregnant than graduating, and unfortunately it's the only job you could get.

You get summers off though, which is nice.

Unfortunately, as the end of spring and the school year approach, the rowdy residents have gotten so much worse. Graffiti runs rampant, baggies of "oregano" and "talcum powder" abound as you're cleaning up what you can only hope is a puddle of urine someone left in a corner. Finishing the job, you apply a cracked and faded "twat floor" sign a student helpfully restored between class. Rolling your mop and bucket around, you glide through the empty hallways back towards the supply closet, eager for a cigarette before the next figurative or literal fire need be put out. Rounding a corner, you see a pair of students locked mid coitus, the girl looks at you for a brief moment before moaning loudly and focusing on the member inside of her. Preemptively tossing a few scraps of paper on the floor for the inevitable mess, you take a mental note of the spot and continue to your shared sanctuary with the rest of the custodial staff.

Entering the unmarked door you inhale the clean lemony scent of industrial solvents and cleaners, a brief respite from the adolescent stink that permeates the rest of the school. Collapsing on the worn leather couch, you instinctively reach for a pack of menthols hidden amongst the many folds of the seat. Pulling free a cigarette you place it between your lips, strike a match, and notice yet another job on the infinite wall of sticky notes that have plastered the far wall, "erase the swastikas in the girl's gym bathroom." Sighing, you blow out the match, replace the cigarette and grab your bottle of watered down solvent and a rag.

Ignoring the streaks of filth and stink of failure, you soon find yourself at the girl's gym, and the wall of patched holes that mark it so. Making your way towards the section with the most holes, you enter the door, assaulted by a myriad of saccharine perfumes undercut by the rancid stench of rotting sweat. You glance at your watch, twenty minutes until class let's out, which gives you ten minutes before the girls come back in to change, plenty of time to finish cleaning, wouldn't want to be accused of peeping, again.

Entering the bathroom, a strange sound catches your ears, a sort of wet slapping sound followed by a deep inhalation and a small moan. Looking around the open stalls, you see a single foot on the floor of the bathroom, twitching and spasming every few seconds, no doubt the perpetrator. Steadying your breath and minding your footfalls, you ease your way towards the stall. With some evidence you might be able to get them expelled, reducing your workload next year. Now standing beside the stall, you pull out your phone, open the camera, and snap a pic of the miscreant in the act. What you see is not a ne'er-do-well scrawling racist imagery into the walls, but a pervert using another's underwear to arouse herself as she massages her large cock.

"SO YOU'RE THE ONE THATS BEEN JIZZING ONTO THE CEILINGS!"