The winds were out of the Northwest at 8:00am when the boats departed for the fishing grounds. This was a fortunate scenario considering the entire septic system was backed up at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.
“Boss, I think the sink is plugged in the lodge,” said Celine as she entered the boat house and found Rusty re-spooling the half-dozen baitcasting reels that Mr. Long Ears had snarled the previous evening.
“Maybe the line is backed up. Didn’t you say there’s one of those grease doohickies somewhere under the sink?”
“It’s either that,” she continued, “or one of our guests brought a Ping Pong Playing Parrot to the island, and it threw a sleeve of balls down my garbage disposal.”
“Ok, I’ll be right up. Have you seen Cos anywhere?” replied Rusty.
“Yeah, he and Link are up tinkering in the generator shed. The fuse still pops in the lodge when I run the microwave and the toaster at the same time in the mornings.”
Making their way from the boat house to the lodge Rusty asked, “Celine, you didn’t by chance flush something down the staff toilet that you shouldn’t have?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, Ruffleupagus. Because the short answer would be, YES. Like Minister Nev’s dog collar—the day he irked me by going to town and not buying me a Coffee Crisp. Then there was the day I offed Link’s squirrel buddy—I thought it would be best to flush it, instead of tossing it in the bush were Link might happen upon it.”
“Celine, you can’t flush random articles down the toilet,” stated Rusty. “We have a super delicate waste management system.”
“So maybe we should also add a few tampoons to that list of non-flushables. Now on… Mr. Turds only… I get it… geesh.”
First, Rusty tried the kitchen sink. Yep… totally backed up. Next, he visited the lodge bathroom and made what would be his first major mistake of this endeavor… flushing the toilet.
Thankfully, he was not wearing flippidy-flops, but the immediate overflow of water did drown his sneakers. And the entirety of the bathroom floor. Bright side? No corn—yet.
As with most situations, be it plumbing or a string of unfortunate incidents… proverbial shit will inevitably run downhill. End of the day… keep your head on a swivel.
Rusty’s next thought was to pop the lid on the septic tank outside the lodge. Maybe peek… see what the inside of that tank looked like.
This would require a clothespin for his nose. Something he would find on the clothesline near the community bathhouse. So far so good—he was still upwind of the rancid pit.
Speaking of rancid pits… Ron Heimburg’s shirt was drenched with sweat as the flight attendant continued down the isle of the airplane… wielding her Glock 19 with the hair trigger while canvasing Team Eagle.
Sally had serious doubts about making it to their first fuel stop in Dakar. Both she and Hazel had been loose by leaving their handguns stored in the overhead bins. Meanwhile, Ms. Flight Attendant’s chestnut eyes painted a bleak picture.
“Everyone stay in your seats and remain calm,” she announced in a low-monotone voice. “Our pilots in the cockpit have received word from your HQ that there may be a potential threat on board the airplane.”
Though danger had indeed arisen… Team Eagle momentarily breathed a collective sigh of relief. The loaded Glock 19, at least this one, was not to be used on them.
“I’m going to re-check the sleeping quarters,” announced Ms. Flight Attendant, “and the washroom in the rear of the plane. Make double-bubble sure we don’t have a stowaway on this journey.”
Making her way down the aisle, passing the foursome, both Sally and Hazel rose to reclaim their handguns and join forces. Jackie Loonsuckle consoled Ron by encouraging him to take deep breaths into a paper bag.
At the rear of the plane the bedroom door was closed. Same as before takeoff.
Eight strides from the door… Ms. Flight Attendant stopped and whispered, “My name is Winifred Dixie… Friends call me Win.”
“Ok, Win,” Sally said in a hushed voice, “let me go first… anyone that’s back here… I want first crack.”
“Be my guest,” replied Win. “I’ll turn the knob… You storm the gate… Ms. Hazel can provide cover.”
“How do you know my name?” murmured Hazel.
“I’m also a friend of HQ,” Win replied with a wink. Then she turned the knob and swung the door inward, allowing Sally and Hazel to pass.
Locked and loaded the trio quickly and quietly burst into the room. The closet—under the twin beds—nothing.
Winifred eyed both Sally and Hazel, then shrugged her shoulders. Hazel stood adjacent to one of the twin beds and closed a storage compartment with her foot. Sally ran her hand along the wall between the two beds—stopped—and immediately put her index finger to her lips.
To the touch… Her hand revealed a vertical crease. Either Ron Heimburg chartered a weird jet, or there was a false panel about to be opened.
Sally filled her cheeks with air and with a moment of hesitation pressed inward on the panel. A compressed latch released—it was a hidden door.
There was a noise—tic tic tic tic. And there were two lights—one red—one green. The green light flickered in cadence with the ticking bomb.
Speaking of seeing lights—Rusty had affixed the clothespin to his nose—and was now south of the bathhouse preparing to pop the lid off the poop tank. A Ping Pong Playing Parrott, he thought to himself.
Then dropping to his knees in the grass, he began twisting the screws loose from the corners of the tank cover. Oddly, he thought he heard gurgling. But now it sounded more like an elephant’s moan—one with a severe belly ache.
Three screws down and one to go. Then thankfully, the elephant expelled itself with a massive belch. It was as though Old Faithful had erupted at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters—no need to remove that final screw.
The insurmountable pressure that filled the tank generated a human waste explosion that reached a height of 25ft. This height was later confirmed by Celine who had been standing on the deck of the lodge when the geyser went off. EASILY, she said when talking about how the spray had gone higher than the peak of the nearby bathhouse.
As for our fearless poop-maintenance-man? The last he could recall—before the acidity took him to la-la-land—he was lying flat on his back watching twenty-four ping pong balls drop from the sky like shooting stars from the Northern Lights.
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 