Not sure if you are being sarcastic.
I'll spell it out just in case you aren't.
There you are being the Grey Man (™) at Chili's eating whatever it is they serve at Chili's, when you feel the rumble of nature's call. You know this is a difficult situation and you'll need 100% of your situational awareness to survive.
Fortunately, eight years ago you read on arf.com about a poster's brother in law that was nearly assaulted in a Dairy Queen john, and since that day you've made it a practice to reconnoiter the bathroom of every public space as soon as you enter. Now that practice will pay off.
You get up from your table (you are facing the door, naturally, and your significant other no longer rolls his eyes when you insist that he let you sit on the 'gunfighter's side'). You walk past the bar, giving the patrons an ocular patdown as you pass. No 5.11 or Kuhl pants and nary a untucked plaid shirt. You smirk silently at the sheeple.
You make a stop at the server's station to tell the waitress you need a refill of iced tea. You don't want a refill, but used the pause to conduct counter surveillance and make sure you aren't being followed. You are clear.
You enter the bathroom and no one is visible. You reach into your pocket, pull out your keys and purposely drop them on the floor. This gives reason to bend down, pick up your keys and and also look under the three stalls for the feet of any defecators. There are none. As you stand up, you subconsciously pat your waistline to reassure your self that the China Pick is still there. Alas the Ban Tang upgrade will have to wait until finances are better.
You walk to the last stall, which you know from your recce is handicap accessible, enter and lock the door behind you. You want the extra room of the wheelchair stall, which would prevent prying eyes that enter in the neighboring stalls from seeing your clothing and what your new Graith belt carries.
You open your belt with the loud rip of the hook and loop fasteners coming apart. You lower your trousers to the floor, keeping one hand one the grip of your Faux Roland Special and making sure it rests in your underwear and doesn't twist and dangle precariously outside your pants. (You made modifications to the modifications, so can't call it a Roland.)
Unbeknownst to you, you've just sign your own death sentence. You see, that older distinguished gentlemen in the last booth before the bathroom, well, you quickly ascertained he wasn't a threat and barely glanced at him. If you had looked more closely, you would have seen that he was reading a biography of Rosa Luxemburg, which would have given you pause.
You couldn't have known that as you passed by him, he was feeling that telltale pressure in the abdomen that indicates to to the brain that the bladder is full. He would stand and walk to the restroom, entering just after you closed the door to the stall.
You see, that older is the last surviving member of the Baader-Meinhoff Gang. He didn't last this long in the game without learning a thing or two. When he heard the rip of the Graith belt unfastening, he knew you were his mortal enemy. He has the element of surprise, and now you are going to die sitting on the commode. Like Elvis.