Friday, 13 May 2011

Metric Shit Ton

This is a pretty disgusting story. Half of the blame goes to Chuck Wendig over at his website for the topic for this one. The other half is totally me. :P


   "Wow, that's a lot of fucking shit."Tim said, displaying once again his penchant for understating the obvious.
    We beheld it all through the window of the rental truck. Before us was a vast field completely covered by the most disgusting brow and green shit pile you could possibly imagine.  Great, heaping piles of unprocessed horse shit.
    This is why I don’t normally go for Tim’s get rich quick schemes. Not only is this parr for the course in terms of motherfucking stupidity, but they as a rule tend to end with us not getting paid and being left to clean up the shit left over. Except in this case, it’s fucking literal shit here.    So where the plan on paper was that a guy Tim knew cultivated and delivered some high grade horse manurer to a fertilization plant run by another guy Tim knew who’d process and bag the shit, we now had the sad stinking reality of it all; the shit being unceremoniously dumped all over a field owned by our silent partner Francis. Of course when I say silent partner I mean that we once went over the scheme with him while we were drunk in a bar; his response was to nod his head knowingly and tell us to let him know how it all turned out.  Francis was also an ex-marine, and, if the local rumors were in any way true, had killed 17 Iraqi soldiers during Operation Iraqi Freedom and had spent in total between two to four tours of duty between Iraq and Afghanistan. Believe it or not, the guy also was said to have a temper.
    In short, we were proper fucked.
    We got out of the truck to better survey the field and immediately wished we hadn’t as the stink hit us like a sledgehammer to the dick. We quickly scrambled back into the truck and made sure the windows were rolled all the way up.
    Tim whipped out his sunglasses and put them on. “Looks like shit just got real.”
    I looked up at the heavens and asked, “He’s not going to be any fucking help is he?” The no sign from above told me what Buddy Christ’s answer was. In the silence that followed though came a whirring sound that even Tim didn’t want to hear as the local sheriff’s car. As if the flashing lights weren’t enough.
    “Fucking hell, Tim,” I yelled. “Why the fuck do I follow your dumb ass retarded schemes anyways? Why the fucking do I believe anything you say? You got me into this shit damn fuck mess, you get us out.”
    “Relax, relax man,”Tim replied. “I know a guy on the force around here. Maybe this douchewad knows him.”
    Tim got out of the car and swaggered over to the sherif’s car. The cop got out and seemed to stare at Tim for a minute before laughing out loud and hugging the son of a bitch like they were related or something. Tim looked back at the truck with the shit eater grin, gave me the thumbs up sign and waved me over.
    “Shawn, this here’s Sherif Dave,”he laughed. “Though back in the day he wasn’t such a big man and we used to call him just Deputy Dave.”
     Tim hiked his pants and waddled around bow legged like he just received an atomic wedgie.  Dave laughed so hard you’d think it was the cream of comedy.
    “Jesus H. on a bicycle Tim, what in holy hell did you get yourself into?”Dave asked.
    “Ahhh, you know me. Same shit, different day.”
    Both of them laughed even harder at that.

    “I don’t know how you’re gonna cover this one up,”Dave said, wiping his brow. Specially with this being Francis’ land and all.”

    “Cover it up...oh, fuck Dave, if I hadn’t gone to school with you I’d call you a genius. You don’t happen to know Lane Charles’ number?”

    “Course I do. He works part time as the volunteer dispatch around here. He’s working right now in fact.”

    Sherif Dave went back over to his car to get on the radio.

    “Huh? What the fuck is happening?” I asked.

    Tim clapped me on the back.
    “Lane Charles owns the work crews around here. And even better he owes me a favor from way back. I’m pretty sure I can get him to send over some boys to dig up the field, smooth out the shit and then cover everything up with new sod before that cocksucker Francis knows what’s what.”
    I facepalmed; half because I knew that Tim was just as good at getting himself out of trouble as he was getting into it, and half because I didn’t want him to see the tears of relief swelling up in my eyes from not having an ex-marine see if he could blend my teeth with his shit kicker black boots.

    In half a day the deed is done, and all that’s left is a field that faintly smells like shit. Tim turned to me, tossed me one of the beer he’d been keeping for a special occasion and said:
     “You know even with this covered over we should probably leave the country for a bit. You know I know a guy who knows a guy in Turkmenistan who’s trying to get into the hotel business and is looking for some new business partners.”

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