Piss Corps

    File metadata for:  my_diary.diary  (regular file)
    File handler: Agent M. Rosenthal #16F37DA4
    Note: This file was decrypted using the agency backdoor key
          and entered into evidence by Agent Rosenthal.
    -- Original filesystem stat --
    File: my_diary.diary    (regular file)
    Size: 214 kB    Blocks: 418     IO Block: 4096
    Device: 1,3     Inode: 56701968     Links: 1
    Access (0644/-rw-r--r--)    Uid: ( 1000/kat)    Gid: ( 1000/kat)

4 January 2078 11:01 PM

God, how do I start this thing? I haven’t had a diary since I was a kid. Am I supposed to be writing to someone?

You know sometimes you see those published diaries by people who are all long dead? Maybe on my deathbed I’ll give someone the password to this thing and everyone in the future can read about how shitty my life is on planet Eurydice a hundred years later. By the way, when I say my life is shitty, that’s not a metaphor.

About two months ago, I got reassigned to the Piss Corps by Boss Li because of a liiiiittle mistake of losing a key of coke on a run. Okay? Mistakes happen. So now of all the stinking duties I have to be stuck with, of course it’s going to be my piss-poor luck that I’m stuck with the Piss Corps.

What the fuck do we do? Basically we spend all day scouting construction sites for Porta-potties, tracking big trucks with septics tanks around until we think they’re full, and hijack them. Then we drive them over to wherever Jerry says to, and unload all the piss and shit into another septic tank. God knows what the point of all that is.

I tried asking Jerry what it’s all supposed to be used for, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. “Mind your business and do your job,” he said. That’s what he always says. Try to ask him anything― “How’s it going?” or “Where are you from?” or “Where’s the train station?”― and all he’ll say is “Mind your business” or “Do your job” or both.

Someone should get him drunk one of these days. I bet he’ll say some really dark shit. Maybe he gets off to torture porn or something really fucked up.

I tried asking Nybble, the jackass who hacks the traffic cameras and stuff on our runs, what we’re collecting all this shit for. But all he did was go, “You really don’t know?” and scoff. He thinks he’s better than us because he sits in his pajamas pushing buttons while we do all the real work on the street. Believe me, if he ever has to come along with us and actually risk his own ass for a change, he’d shit his pants. No question.

He’s never shown his face either. I bet he’s got a super punchable face, you know what I mean? The kind of face you take one look at and are instantly compelled to see fist meet nose. And I bet he has no idea what we do with this stuff either.

Rathead doesn’t know but at least he’s not a dick about it. He’s a chill dude. He lets you borrow his Mickey Mouse lighter, and if you ask nicely he’ll drive the truck if you’re not feeling up to it. But he’s kind of wack-job though.

This one time we were playing Poker with Maddis and JC in the back room of Boss Li’s Mahjong parlor, and out of the blue his chair clatters onto the floor and he’s shouting “Eureka!” and starts putting Pizza Rolls on one of those personal-sized frozen pizzas. It was his turn to bet.

That’s not the end of it either. After taking it out of the toaster oven and about two minutes of eating this monstrosity, he leaps out of his chair again and comes back with a can of pineapple giggling like a madman. As he’s dumping canned pineapple on his Pizza Roll pizza, he’s all slack-jawed and looking in amazement like he’s invented something revolutionary. He takes one bite and goes, “Duuuuude… this is gonna take over the world!!!”

The only person who seems to have any ideas about what we’re doing with all this shit we steal is the new chick, Mara. She’s really nice. Maybe a little too nice for her own good. She greets everyone when they pass by, she tries to make small talk with randos in the Mahjong parlor to the point Jerry had to tell her to stop, and she can’t bluff in Poker for shit. If she has a good hand, she scrunches up her little nose every time. I’d really hate to see her in any trouble.

“They’re probably selling it, right?” she said, “Like, you know when you flush the toilet it goes into the sewer? There’s some facility it goes to and the water gets cleaned and then farms can use it to water crops and stuff.” Man, if recycled piss-water is being used to water crops, no wonder food these days tastes like shit.

But even if you sell recycled sewage, I can’t imagine it’s really worth stealing. Who the hell is buying illegal sewage? I tried asking Mara but even she doesn’t know. She just shrugged and said, “I’d love to know. Let me know if you find out, alright?”

I’m really curious now. Seriously, who’s buying this stuff?

7 January 2078 1:02 AM

I was driving today’s sewage truck to the dropoff point with Rathead when we start to hear sirens blaring in the distance. Usually it’s someone trying to hold up a convenience store, or someone’s husband’s had a little too much to drink. What usually doesn’t happen is when the guy who’s supposed to be hacking all the traffic cameras starts muttering “fuck, fuck fuck” under his breath moments before you hear the sirens.

“Okay team, we fucked up,” he said as I was driving down the intersection. The only time Nybble calls us a team is when he does something horribly wrong. “We have to get you somewhere the drones can’t see you. I’m giving you a new destination.”

I learned today that Rathead doesn’t like dark tunnels. Can’t fucking stand them. For four hours Nybble had us holed up in an abandoned tunnel with the truck before we got the all clear. Four goddamn hours trying to keep Rathead from freaking the fuck out. He’d always been a tad claustrophobic, like he’d be all fidgety in the elevator unless he’d had his smokes beforehand. But I never thought I’d see the day when he’d fully lose his marbles in front of me.

Today of all days would have been a great time for him to have his smokes, but by some twist of fate he’d left it at home. I thought he carried it everywhere, like it was his life force or something. One time when we were emptying our truck, he thought he dropped his lighter down one of the septic tanks and spent an hour magnet fishing before realizing it was in his pocket the whole time.

I tried getting him to calm down and all that, but after five minutes of his nervous trembling and mumbling about how we’re all fucked, I started to lose it myself and gave him a big slap. Right on the face. I thought maybe a sudden hit like that would reboot his system, but this only made things worse because his mumbling turned to howling and I started really regretting my life choices.

Ten minutes after that I’d broken down myself and started to plead. “Please, would you just pipe down? It’s gonna be alright Rathead, you know? You know what I’m talking about? Everything’s gonna be fine,” I said, eyes wide and breaking into a cold sweat. I was really grasping at straws here. “Look, Rathead, what’s your favorite food? You remember that Pizza Roll pizza you invented? With the pineapple? Imagine that― when you get home you can eat all the damn Pizza Roll abominations you want.”

Suddenly, his voice cuts off. His head slowly turns toward me. He had a face like he’d been drained by a fuckin’ vampire, with bags under his beady eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept for a week. But miraculously, from the corners of his mouth, he starts to give this defeated half-smile, even though he’s still trembling like a motherfucker.

So I knew I just had to keep talking. “When we get out of here, I’m gonna get me some pasta with that Cajun cream sauce. That’s shit’s real good, you know what I’m talking about?”

He just sort of did this little nod and slowly he opens his mouth and says, “Poutine.”

“Fucking what?”

“You asked me what my favorite food was. Poutine.”

“Another one of your inventions?”

“Naw man, Poutine. P-O-U-T-I-N-E. You take fries, right? And you put cheese curds on it. Then you get gravy all over them fries, maybe add a little bacon. You haaave to try it sometime. It’s fuckin’ righteous.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well my friend, we’ve got to get some culture into you. If the wormhole opens again, I’ll show you around my hometown. You’re going to love the Big Orange.” Then he started to mime out a big circle above his head with his arms.

I thought the “Big Orange” was the city’s nickname, like how “Big Apple” is actually New York City. But no, apparently it’s a big, round, orange-shaped building where they sell orange juice and this poutine thing. You know what? He’s right. I’d totally love to see that, not like in a “Wow this is really awesome!” kind of way, but more like “Wow, so that kind of thing really exists, huh?” way.

That’s all kind of a moot point though, unless you actually think the wormhole is going to reopen in our lifetime. I mean, it’s been eight years― you’d think if they were going to open it they’d have done it by now instead of leaving everyone on this side trapped. All the companies that poured countless bags of money colonizing Eurydice must have at least tried it rather than give up on their sizeable investment. And at the very least, every family with someone stuck on the other side of the wormhole would give an arm and a leg just to talk to their children again, so if they could open it up even just a peep, I’m sure we’d know by now.

He kept reminiscing about all these little things about his home, what his life used be to be, and what he’d do the moment he got back to Earth. Slowly the color returned to his face. He seemed so damn sure he’ll be able to go back someday that I just had to ask him why, even if it’s so damn unlikely.

“Because it just has to,” he said to me, “Because one day, I’m gonna hug little Sonya in my arms again, even if she’s all grown up, because that’s just the way the world is meant to be. Isn’t that enough?”

I can’t imagine ever having any kids, and I’ve never cared much for my own family either. I didn’t know my own mother for long, and when my father wasn’t wallowing in self-pity after she left him, he was busy putting down my accomplishments and doubting me every step of the way. But sometimes I see how everyone else gets along with their family and wish I had that too. How would my life be different? Would I still be stuck on this shithole of a planet, driving sewage around and hiding in dark tunnels?

When Nybble finally gave us the all clear, we dropped off the sewage and went back to the Mahjong parlor to report back to Jerry. He dismissed us, except for Nybble, who I hear was chewed out extensively. He fucking deserves it.

Maddis and JC had gone home hours ago, but Mara was still hanging around, apparently still trying to get used to the place. She said she’d passed by Rathead who just wanted to be alone for the night, and asked me what got us so late. So I told her what happened: Nybble fucking up, hiding in a dark tunnel for four hours, and Rathead’s mental breakdown. Mara’s a good listener. She’s always asking all these questions that lead you into different little topics, and half an hour later you forgot how the conversation even started but it’s okay because you’re having fun. And she’s always so attentive even though I’m sure I was so damn boring to listen to.

“If that happens again, you have to be gentler. Boys need soothing words too,” Mara told me, “I think when you asked him about his favorite food, you got him to imagine a future Rathead where he’s enjoying poutine safe at home, and it gave him a bit of hope. That’s probably what calmed him down.”

I wanted to talk with her more, so I asked her if she’d want to grab dinner with me or something if she hadn’t eaten yet. But she said she still had something she had to do. “Ask me again next time,” she said.

So I went home alone, swinging by the convenience store on the way, where the windows still haven’t been replaced after being smashed in last month. The Cajun cream sauce pasta ready meal costs 50 friggin’ Lyra each now, so I had to just reconstitute the shitty nutrient powder I had at home. I’m getting real sick of this artificial chocolate flavor. Urgh.

I guess I should head to bed.

12 January 2078 9:45 PM

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I fuckin’ miss Rathead, man. He got Jerry to give him time off to recover from his mental breakdown, so this week I’m stuck running jobs with fucking Maddis.

I rip on Rathead for being a wacky airhead sometimes, but if there’s anyone around here’s who proper fucking apeshit, it’s Maddis. Maddis, as JC puts it, is mad. Last week he threw a chair through the window of the Mahjong parlor while Jerry was telling him he needs to be more discreet and stop fucking capping the drivers of every goddamn truck he tries to jack. God knows Jerry’s constant nagging can get on your nerves sometimes, but he has a point― if Toilets Inc. has a truck full of shit stolen now and then, it’s just business. But if too many of their employees die, the CBA gives them a 2 million Lyra fine and Toilets Inc. starts sending corp security after you.

If there’s anything scarier than the cops, it’s corp security. Except maybe Maddis.

Maddis is so batshit crazy that even Nybble is willing to stop being a high and mighty piece of shit when it comes to dealing with that psycho. I guess he’s afraid Maddis will suddenly fly into a rage and somehow deck him in the mouth through the radio if he so much as breathes into the microphone wrong. I mean, fuck, I’d like to see a cage match between Maddis and Nybble and see his sorry ass get handed to him― but definitely not when I’m within a 100 foot radius of ground zero.

When Maddis isn’t around, you know Nybble is talking all sorts of shit about him. According to some of the stuff he’s dug up, Maddis was dishonorably discharged from the North American Space Force after beating a crewman into a bloody pulp, all for knocking his fucking spoon off the table in the mess hall. He became a drifter in Eurydice after failing to adjust to civilian life on Earth, and ended up regularly sinking what was left of his money at Boss Li’s Mahjong tables.

Now, I’ve never played a game of Mahjong in my life, but I know there’s only one reason he wins anything at our Poker games: when you’re sat within arm’s reach of a menacing 6 foot 4, 250-something pound behemoth with anger issues, you have to let him win a few hands unless you’re willing to bet that the two pair in your hand also magically makes your fucking skull indestructible.

We forgot to tell Mara about this aspect of our table etiquette, upsetting a delicate balance the first time she played a game with us. Like many, she picked up Maddis’ tell almost immediately: he starts looking around the table, giving everyone the fucking evil eye if he’s bluffing his ass off. But being an innocent new recruit, she wrongly assumed that Maddis was a normal person, so after hoovering up all of his chips and calling his final, desperate attempt to go all-in with an obviously garbage hand, we could all feel time slowing down as his seething red face contorted into pure, unadulterated rage.

Chips jumped off the table as he slammed his gargantuan fists onto its surface, moments before he transformed our game into 52 card pickup by heaving the table across the room and screaming “FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH!” at the top of his fucking lungs.

Normally, JC runs with Maddis, but with Rathead gone and Jerry making JC show Mara how to maintain the septic tanks, I was stuck with the madman. I tried to volunteer myself as the teacher and maybe spend some quality time with Mara, but for some fucking reason Jerry was pretty insistent that JC do it. “He’s got more experience,” he said, as if teaching it requires a third-degree black belt or some shit.

Maddis basically spent the entire route to the stakeout location spouting his bullshit politics and saying how Myriam Morgan should be the Chairman of the Eurydicean Council since she’s going to get rid of the tiered income tax. He thinks that “it’s unfair to everyone who earned their Lyra fair and square.” Nevermind the fact that, as members of the fucking mafia, none of us pay income tax, nor is any of our Lyra earned fair or square. I sat through his entire fucking spiel trying to keep myself from engaging because, let’s face it, people like Maddis cannot be reasoned with.

True to form, not one nanosecond passes after spotting the newly loaded septic truck before Maddis takes out his sawed-off and goes, “I’m going in, you better cover me.”

And when I tried to remind him that this is exactly the kind of thing Jerry yelled at him for just last Tuesday, he goes, “Fuck that guy, I’m not gonna sit around for five fucking hours to jack a truck,” and bolts out into plain fucking view of the truck driver as he was climbing into the truck cab. Surprised, he shouted something indistinct, and in the next instant, my ears started ringing. Maddis had guaranteed himself another lecture from Jerry.

The driver’s blood, brains, and skull were splattered all over the fucking truck cabin. I watched it all slowly drip from the ceiling into a pool of blood gathering on top of the seats. Each and every drop sent a ripple through the blood, shimmering in the moonlight. I thought I was gonna be fucking sick.

All this while, Maddis was just wiping off the windshield with the truck driver’s shirt. When he was done, he tossed it aside onto the pavement. The driver’s name was embroidered on the shirt. Samuel, it said.

“You comin’?” Maddis said. He planted himself in the driver’s side blood pool without a second thought.

I always thought the more you see people killed in front of you, the easier it would be to shrug it off and just move on― to tell myself that, yeah, people die, you know? like everyone else in this business. But no matter how many times I see the blood, I can never stop remembering what it was like the first time.

I was 23. The wormhole had been closed for two and a half years. I used to think I would have become a journalist by then, or a photographer― literally anything else. But instead, I was broke, starving, and holding a gun to a poor teenage kid who had the misfortune of stumbling upon Boss Li’s cocaine operation.

Urban exploration, he said. It was his hobby.

He swore he wouldn’t tell a soul.

If he didn’t get home by midnight his mom would worry.

He winced every time I hesitated to shoot him.

I cried that night. Silent tears, laying in bed, until my eyes were raw.

I tried to wash out the images with the cheapest, foulest cleaning product that could still be legally called vodka. And yet, every time I see the blood, it’s always there.

It never goes away.