“A little Toiletverse short about Sal, the changeup he loves too much, and the pipes that won’t shut up.”
Sal and the Rude Changeup
(a Toiletverse short)
Sal already knew the changeup was a stupid idea before he threw it.
He also knew he was going to throw it anyway.
Catcher puts down one finger, then waggles to three. Changeup. Outer half. The exact pitch Sal has been bragging about in the bullpen for a week.
His heart jumps like somebody hit the gas on his nervous system.
Easy. Don’t show it.
He breathes. Smooths his jersey. Stares in. Pretends this is just another fastball. Fastball, fastball, totally normal fastball, definitely not the pitch I’ve been dying to show off—
Down below, in the concrete and rusted metal under the mound, the pipes wake up.
They don’t talk in words, exactly. They talk in pings, drips, and that hollow metal echo that Sal’s brain insists on translating.
A single drip lands somewhere under the first‑base line—ohhh, here we go—followed by another in shallow left.
Up top, Sal toes the rubber.
He can feel his fingers buzzing on the seams. Grip is perfect. Changeup grip. His grip. His filthy pitch. His brain starts narrating like an announcer who’s had too much coffee.
If this guy’s sitting dead red, he’s cooked. He’s so early he’ll—
Ping.
A sharp metallic sound rings out from directly above home plate, like someone just flicked the universe with a spoon.
The catcher doesn’t flinch. The hitter doesn’t flinch. The ump does that tiny half‑blink they do when a bug flies by. Nobody else seems to have heard it.
Sal definitely heard it.
“What the—”
Another ping answers under the dirt, higher and faster this time. In Sal’s head, it reads clearly: Sneaky boy thinks he’s clever.
A low glug rolls through a main line under the third‑base dugout, a lazy, echoing swirl that his brain captions as: He thinks he’s about to fool him. So cute.
Somewhere in the outfield, the Toiletverse does its favorite impression of a flushing toilet.
Not a real one—no porcelain, no handle being yanked—but the sound is dead‑on. A long, swirling roar, rolling under the grass, up through the soles of his cleats, bubbling in his spine.
Sal swallows. Hitter steps in. The adrenaline spikes again.
Don’t show it. Don’t tip. Don’t—
Three perfectly spaced drips hit concrete beneath him: one‑two‑three, right on his internal panic beat. In his head they line up as a chant: He’s tipping, he’s tipping, he’s ti‑i‑ipping.
Sal sets. Leg lifts. Arm comes through with all the conviction of a fastball. Fingers let go with all the fear of a kid jumping off the high dive.
The ball leaves his hand and, for a full half‑second, even he can’t tell what it is.
That’s the good part. That’s the rude part.
At sixty feet and six inches away, the hitter’s eyes go a fraction too wide. The bat starts a fraction too early. The universe does another tiny ping above the plate, like the Toiletverse is ringing a bell for itself.
The changeup drifts in, slower and meaner than any radar gun will ever understand.
The swing is already committed. The bat’s out front. The result is inevitable.
Whiff.
The crowd noise comes in three volumes:
- The polite “ooh” from people who just saw a big swing and a miss.
- The louder “YES” from Sal’s dugout.
- And, faintest of all, the muffled music of pipes and drains celebrating underneath.
A deep, satisfied glug rolls through the plumbing under third. In Sal’s head, it’s pure: Ruuuuude. Absolutely rude.
From another line, a slow series of drips spells out a phrase he’s heard before:
Velo is loud. Your changeup is rude.
Sal catches the return throw from his catcher, adrenaline still buzzing, trying very hard not to smile.
He didn’t just fool the hitter.
He fooled himself, too.
And somewhere under the mound, the Toiletverse takes a long, imaginary flush and settles back in to listen for the next bad idea.