Buckets

I could tell it was Travis by the shape of his silhouette in the light of the doorway. Fully in the throes of extremely poorly timed diarrhea, I hoped to God that he was bringing me another bucket or something because the smell of my own filth was starting to get to me.

"Here," he said, handing me a bottle of Advil, "take what's in that," then handed over a clear plastic water bottle filled with a green liquid, "and drink this Gatorade."

Examining up the bottle of pills, it sounded empty but for one pill. From the D on one side and the Arabic number four on the other, I couldn't really tell what it was. At this point I was ready to shit myself to death anyway, so I winced and threw it into my mouth, washing it down with the lemon-lime Gatorade. Whatever it is, I hope to Christ that it's something like an Imodium.

I got my ass back on the bucket toilet just in time.

"I guess you were right," Travis said, looking me in my complete indignity, shitting liquid as he spoke.

I groan. "I fucking told you."

"Anyway, Look, there's a frost warning tonight, so we have to take you in. I'll come check on you in a while and that should get your guts in order enough to come in. We'll get you set up for beddie-bies in the house tonight, like a big boy. That should be enough to help your guts and get you nice and sleepy."

Travis' face looked extremely punchable in that moment.

The barn reeked like shit though. My shit. I knew what side my bread was buttered on. Waving him off as he threw me a roll of toilet paper, he told me to try not to use it all or some God damned thing, and I sat, shitting, waiting for the whatever it was he gave me to quiet my guts. The drink was thoughtful. I didn't think they'd want me to dehydrate to death.

After about twenty minutes or so I began to feel the a bit woozy, and ten minutes after that I was confident that I was totally empty, or at least not longer actively shitting myself. I was able to clean up and, with the soap and water as part of my daily allotment, I washed up, and sealed the bucket of horror with its lid. Then, after giving the toilet topper a quick splash with the last of my water basin, I said "Good Lord," as my head began to swim a bit more than I expected.

Travis turned out to be behind me as I said that, and threw me a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt. He said something, then something else, and then "this is the fucking least we can do I guess." and he said something else, and pointed at the shit bucket. I was having a hard time following what he was saying.

I didn't quite understand at first, but I caught on that he wanted me to pick up my shit bucket, which I was able to do, and walk around the back of the barn, which we did, and then put it with about a dozen or so other waste buckets back there. Feeling absolutely idiotic, I said something like "There's a lot of shit back here"

Travis laughed, as he held me steady as I made the deposit.

Over the last couple days, I learned that, like Mitchell, these guys were running a racket with the American regular forces to pay for prisoner swaps. Usually foreign nationals caught up out here get pulled out thanks to the UN, like Ismail. His Algerian citizenship worked really well, especially as part of the security council, last I checked.

I didn't really know this, but Canada has a strict "no mercs" policy, though, so they weren't willing to deal with the so-called "Force of Upper Columbia", or 'Forceys' as Travis called them.

"We drop you with the Army," Travis told me on a particularly chatty afternoon. Whenever he said 'the' it always rhymed with 'uh'.

"You get processed by them, we do the next thing. Lately, because of our current contract, we've been doing a few go-gets and pickups. You know like... go get this guy, pick up that guy. Nothing too bad or hard. Not like the earlier days when it was super hot all the time."

I also learned that the Forceys were a subcontractor for a larger conglomerate of mercenary groups called, appropriately enough, MerCorp. I knew MerCorp was partly owned by Deutsche Bank, of all things. There were a few interviews online just before things really got going with the MerCorp founder, Oren Merner, who was some real piece of shit. It was clear he was a carpetbagger waiting in the wings, and there I was, bagged by his employees.

Coming back around to the front of the barn and over to the house, my legs felt like lead weight, but I felt a warmth wash over me for the first time all night as I stepped across the threshold and into the farmhouse foyer.

Over to my left I saw a larger open room with a couple of the guys and Richard sitting in front of a fireplace, most of them in pajamas, except Richard, who was still wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

Travis told Richard he was ready to call it, and went upstairs. That was the last I saw of him. Richard told me to sit down, which I did without any problem at all.

"I heard you weren't too keen on the leftovers. That's too bad."

"Yeah."

"That Dilaudid I gave you should keep you together until tomorrow morning at least. I guess I should have asked if you were a recovering addict or something. I guess it doesn't really matter though, as I don't want you shitting in here anyway."

I didn't really understand what he was talking about, but that was largely because I didn't really understand much of anything. The Dilaudid made sense. I don't do opiates well at the best of times, and while I no longer had diarrhea, I didn't particularly enjoy--

"Hey, did you hear what I asked?"

"Um... no."

"Do you want something like a protein shake or something?"

I hesitate, and think twice, "No, better not. I'll stick with the Gatorade."

"Look, I know I came off a bit like a jackass," Richard says, "do you smoke?"

I shake my head and say "I quit."

He lit a Camel Cigarette, and crushed the filter a little. The fireplace crackled. "Man, good for you. These things will kill you."

"Listen," he took a long drag and exhaled, "Thanks for not trying to escape or anything."

Jake's phone started to buzz, and he stood up. He was wearing a pair of white sweats with a matching white Champion hoodie. I looked at the fire, and then back to see he had left.

Richard blew another cloud of smoke. It hit the fireplace and was sucked into the flue, and probably pushed out the top of the house, mixed with the wood smoke. He throws another log on the fire.

"My dad was an Oilers fan, back before the leagues separated.

I didn't really have anything to say.

"Flames, yeah?"

"What?"

"The Flames? You're not an Oilers' fan, I'm guessing, so you're a Flames guy?"

"I was more of a Senators guy, I guess."

I'm really starting to feel the Dilaudid and I begin to fully dissolve into the chair, and my eyelids started to feel really heavy.

"Sacrilege. I could respect an Alberta Leafs fan, because of the legacy. Even the Canadiens. But the Senators?"

I make a few vowel noises, but I don't remember what I was trying to say or what I said.

"How does a guy--"

I blink.

"--from Alberta--"

I blink one eye and then another

"--come to like the Senators?"

I feel my eyes close.

"Who's," I yawn, "from Alberta?"

I didn't hear anything.

"I'm gonna..." I realized that I trailed off.

After a while, someone threw a blanket on me and rolled me into recovery position. Rolling my eyes around to see who it was, I saw Richard drop a clean, orange, Home Depot bucket with a closed toilet lid and a fresh roll of toilet paper next to me, along with a fresh Gatorade.