That night, he ate ramen for dinner (the 39-cent kind, not the fancy one). He hung a new sign above his toilet:

It happened on a Tuesday. A innocent-looking wad of "flushable" wipes (never trust that label) and an overzealous toilet paper avalanche created the perfect storm. After the second flush, the water didn't go down. It rose. And rose. And gently kissed the rim.

And from that day forward, Marco became that friend—the one who, at every housewarming party, corners a guest by the bathroom and says, "Do you have five minutes to talk about the true cost of flushable wipes?"

Fifteen minutes later, he was drenched in sweat. The water hadn't budged. The plunger had only managed to churn the mess into a murky soup. Desperate, he texted his dad. "Help?" The reply: "Call a pro. And hide your good towels."

Marco Googled "plumber near me" and called the first number with a 5-star rating. A cheerful dispatcher named Darlene promised someone would arrive within the hour.

"Okay," Marco whispered, grabbing a plunger like a knight unsheathing a sword.