Piss pot

Beauty looks like a pisspot. I tell her so. A compliment because the golden urine of life is poured into her by her Father the Sun. Hence, the Sun is sitting on a pisspot. That pisspot is the Zodiac.

He was fumbling in his little night-table, where he keeps his pisspot.

Upstairs, Cornelius van den Meer is calling for the pisspot to be emptied.

That ought to satisfy the pisspot sons of bitches, he thought as he transmitted his apology to the spacecraft orbiting above.

‘I′m sorry about your place. It′s not my doing,’ I said. ‘Like hell it isn′t.’ Then a yellow tooth glinted behind his lip and he added, ‘You little pisspot.’

By now a large crowd had gathered; when she learned the kid was dead a sobbing Deluvina Maxwell cursed Garrett and pounded his chest. “You pisspot!” she raged, “you sonofabitch!”

He sailed it out the hatch into the harbor, then shrugged off the wrap and balanced it in his hand. “Do for wiping rags, I guess,” he muttered. “I won′t be sorry to look down on this pisspot world, though.”

It was only the pisspots of the world that made it. The most dangerous places. The unstable countries, the feudal states, the anarchic backwaters, places you wouldn′t dare walk out the door without a gun, where bodyguards were fashion accessories—those places did a lot better in the end.