Wherever Medusa went she was releasing gaseous clouds so she thought it best to go back to the stateroom. Her refined bathroom apparatus would be redirected to its purpose. It was politely called the ‘bath-room’, when in all honesty it served mostly as the *******. She lit every scented candle all over again this time hoping to drive away or at least mask the noxious odor. Gratefully, ****** had disappeared most likely off with one or another of the ship’s hot and cold running ******.  
Mixing the doctor’s tincture with whisky, Medusa drank down the mixture in a swift gulp. Almost immediately she felt the pressure inside pushing in all directions. There was the toilet with its cool polished sheen; ivory porcelain beckoning her **** to rest its divide over the cool rippling lake waiting to welcome her turds as if they were saintly deities dropped into the darkened waters. This would be the best **** ever. Tossing aside the yellow kimono, legs astride the bowl; her shadow falling over the funneled recess to the ocean via mechanical plunger.
“****! ****!” she cried waiting for her tummy to tumble as it gurgled and rumbled. She was thinking she wished had some music to blur the sound of her **** tooting raspberries into the echoing white sculpture.