novelxo Chapter 8: Our Garbage; Our Salvation
Chapter 8: Our Garbage. Our Salvation
Between the ranch mechanics and the factory machine shop, Sam financed and built a second-generation Shit Eating Machine (SEM, official commercial name, GarbageGopher) in less than six months. After 4 years of tinkering with version 1, Buck felt wholly outclassed. Growing up, his frugal parents maintained their entire inventory of tools in an old Folger’s coffee can under the sink: a framing hammer, one set of uneven pliers, two Phillips screwdrivers, a manual drill with two bits missing, assorted screws and nails, and a hacksaw. The philosophy of the family seemed to be: if you cannot make do with what we already have, you must be mentally deficient. Buying a new tool for one purpose had not occurred to him; it would be indulgent and wasteful. These guys had lathes, band saws, jackhammers ... you name it. Most of their tools seem to never have been used for anything.
The Entourage staged a race between the machine and a couple unfortunate marmots, throwing beer cans into the maw to try to slow it down. Sam was jubilant. “Let’s eat some shit! There’s a landfill only 5 miles down the road. I call one of my suppliers and see who we can sell the ore to.”
But the environmental impact report on Buck’s venture was damning. The Greens argued vehemently that the fact that people were not properly recycling was evidence for stronger enforcement and monitoring of household and commercial waste and much higher deposits. (Rather missing the point, aren’t they?” Alberto muttered to Sam). The local council were aghast someone would be stirring up the landfills, releasing sulphurous stench into the neighbourhood (“Crap, we gotta get Alberto to find another landfill to work.”) Mineral rights had not been issued to the state-owned landfill site. This one caught Sam off-guard.
Assemblyman Tom Carluccio demanded 50% of the profits, should the enterprise succeed. Sam flushed with rage. “Who’s taking the fucking risk here? Who is this shit?” Alberto started taking notes. The worse part by far, though was The Guardian picked up the proceedings, alerting the whole County to the dangers of Garbage Profiteering. (“Slow news day, I guess”, Alberto quipped.)
Erasmus pulled into the parking lot abutting Sam’s ranch. Sam standing outside was cussing at someone with a clipboard. A tractor was turning the mud with Caleb at the wheel. (Caleb was a 25-year-old kid with Down’s syndrome, who lived somewhere on the ranch.) Behind him, an ape-man was dragging a sack, picking up unearthed potatoes.
“Where’d you get the Korean?” Erasmus inquired, genuinely interested... a rare thing, in and of itself.
“Zeke? Found him in the city. He was getting into all sorts of trouble there. Strangest thing: all he had on him was forty bucks, a dog license, and a dog tag. I had Frank look into it: seems his ‘owner’ was beaten senseless by a mob in Korea, then he was court-marshalled. A social worker offered me money, to take him off his hands! He’s really no trouble; he’s a good worker. Good company for Caleb.”
“Well, could you at least get him to wear some overalls or something?”
“Hehe. I tried. He don’t seem to care. I sure as Hell would cover up, if I had a little dink like that. I’m just glad he’s male. A female could cause all sorts of problems, with all the ranch hands. I hear they’re enthusiastic volunteers at the brothels, but they don’t understand oral sex.”
Erasmus paused in thought. This was more thinking than he liked. After another awkward minute, he concluded, “That’s disgusting”.
Sam rambled on... “Who knows? They say they can’t breed with humans, but like mules, they can successfully breed with each other... at least sometimes. That means we gonna have them around a long time. We’d better get used to it.”
“Well, leave it to you, Sam. The only guy in town with both a Mongoloid and a Korean on the payroll” I thought you were nuts when you bought those Emus. They simultaneously winced at the thought of the Bar-B-Que and both stared off at the hills.
“Erasmus, I got me a problem.”
His ears perked up. Maybe he was going to be asked to rough someone up, or let the air out of someone’s tires. He loved these assignments.
Buck... I want to help him out. It won’t cost much. I had Frank look into it. But the fucking licenses, etc.… The lawyer was doin’ my head in. He don’t have a chance. The kid’s all book-learning. They’ll eat him alive.”
Erasmus ventured, “I dunno shit about that stuff, either, boss”. Why can’t you have Frank do something?”
“I just told you, numb nuts. I had Frank look into it. They’ll eat him alive.” Here’s a fuckin list. The Number One bastard is Tom Carluccio, fucking County Commissioner or Senator or some such zombie bullshit. I guess we’ve run across him before with the Mile High Lounge permit a few years back, but I didn’t remember him. He’s some kind wannabe.”
“Err... what you asking, boss? Erasmus asked tentatively.
“I dunno. Find out about him and the other bastards. Get Alberto to help you. What do they do all day in that office? Can we distract him? Can we blackmail him? He’s a pain in the ass.” Sam was frustrated as Hell. Never in his experience had he dealt with such obstacles. Somewhere along the line, he started caring about Buck’s project. He fumed and spat.
Always eager, Erasmus whispered into his ear, “You want, I should kill him?”
“That’s a nice thought, Erasmus.” He grinned, “I’m sure even his mother wouldn’t miss him.”
Sam spotted and hailed Buck and wandered off.
Never far off, Alberto joined Erasmus on the way out the door. “Nothing good is going to come of this. I wish the Boss would just drop it.”
“I know, mon, ’E’s not fun like before.”
They both holstered last year’s Christmas presents.
“You know? We all in ’dis together. Maybe we get a flag?”
They laughed and headed back to their duties.