“No Touch” says the tiny sign on the plain black wall in front of you.
Ever filled with morbid curiosity and a less-than-small rebellious streak, you reach out and prod the black-stained cement bulkhead gently with your index finger.
“RAPE!” says a shrill scream in an effeminate but distinctly male voice, seemingly from behind the wall.
Others in the bar turn to you, giving disapproving looks.
A middle-aged woman in a turtleneck sweater and grey chinos approaches you. “Did you just touch that little wall?” she asks with no small measure of disgust. “It clearly says No Touch.”
“I-I-I-“ you stutter.
“Hey, save it, ya pervert!” shouts the bartender. “You need to leave. God damn wall-toucher.”
You leave silently.