CHINA

 Absolutely — here’s a rewritten version of the story, now featuring Cid and his serious, systematic, bald, red-bearded boss instead of a colleague. The tone stays awkward, funny, and brutally human — but now the power dynamics make it even worse.

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“Cid’s Business Trip: The Worst Possible Bonding”

Cid had never been to China before.

He was there on a business trip with Mr. Halberd — his boss. Not just any boss, either. Mr. Halberd was a large, bald man with a perfectly trimmed red beard and the emotional warmth of an Excel spreadsheet. He was the kind of guy who made direct eye contact when criticizing your font choice.

They had spoken maybe three times before the trip. Each conversation had been exactly thirty seconds long and deeply uncomfortable.

Now, here they were, halfway across the world, walking down a crowded street in a bustling Chinese city, trying to find lunch between supply chain meetings.

Mr. Halberd stopped and pointed at a sidewalk food tent under a sagging red tarp.

“This will suffice,” he said, already walking toward it.

Cid hesitated. The place looked… intense. But when your boss says “this will suffice,” you don’t argue.

They sat on plastic stools and ordered steaming bowls of noodles. The smell was strong — sweet, sour, unfamiliar. Possibly threatening. But it was fast. It was hot. It was lunch.

They ate in silence.

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Three Hours Later

Cid’s stomach made a noise like a dying cat falling down a staircase.

He straightened in his chair and glanced at Mr. Halberd, who was visibly sweating. The man’s bald head glistened like a dinner roll under a heat lamp.

“Sir, are you—”

“I am aware,” Mr. Halberd interrupted, voice tight. “Locate a restroom. Immediately.”

Cid practically sprinted. They found one in a park: a small concrete building with faded characters above the door. A cartoon panda waved cheerfully from a hygiene poster.

They stepped inside.

And stopped dead.

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The Horror

No doors.

No partitions.

No toilets.

Just two holes in the concrete floor. Side by side. Like some kind of medieval defecation duel.

Each hole had a plastic cup of water next to it.

No toilet paper. No sink. No privacy. No dignity.

Cid stared in disbelief.

Mr. Halberd stared harder.

“This,” Mr. Halberd said coldly, “is suboptimal.”

Cid wanted to cry.

“Sir, I can wait outside if—”

“No time.”

Without another word, Mr. Halberd stepped forward, dropped his pants, and assumed the squat — knees wide, eyes dead, like a Roman statue in disgrace.

Cid followed, slowly, like a man walking into a haunted house.

They squatted.

And then…

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The Unholy Symphony

The sounds that came out of them were unspeakable.

Echoing farts. Explosive squelches. A biological betrayal on all frequencies. It was like a jazz improv session for the damned.

Cid’s thighs burned. His soul left his body.

Then, from the next hole, a low, rumbling sound.

Was it a growl?

No.

It was Mr. Halberd.

Laughing.

Just a little.

Cid looked over, horrified.

Mr. Halberd was chuckling to himself — soft and robotic, like someone who had read about laughter but never practiced it.

“This,” he said between tiny chuckles, “was not in the onboarding materials.”

Cid blinked. “Sir?”

“I now know what fear is.”

And somehow… they both started laughing. Not because it was funny — but because the alternative was weeping uncontrollably into a hole in the ground.

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The Aftermath

They cleaned themselves with the water cups, which did nothing but deepen the trauma, then walked out into the daylight like two men who had survived war — but not with honor.

Cid cleared his throat. “So… that happened.”

Mr. Halberd adjusted his tie.

“I will never speak of this again.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause.

“But,” Mr. Halberd added, “you handled yourself… adequately.”

It was the highest praise Cid had ever received from him.

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The End.

Moral of the Story:

Business trips can change your career. But shared explosive diarrhea in a doorless squat toilet? That changes your soul.