Swiffer Wet Jet

The narcotic haze was washing over me and while I recognized the pain I was in, I truly did not care about it, as my opiate receptors were fully satisfied, leading towards the whatever pathways in the wherever, deep the viscera and ichor that constituted my insides. The TV was on, and while I had an obstructed view, I was nonetheless as deeply hypnotized by an advertisement for the Swiffer Wet Jet and its incredible new formulation that leaves your floor. . . .

. . . . What was I saying?

It didn't matter.

The news animation started, indicating the network name which I couldn't quite make out from the angle I was at. Some real sicko decided to design the room with the TV mounted about a metre towards the wall instead of dead center in front of my "cellie", who's name was Jeff, and he was a little older than me. With his ventilator removed earlier today, I could hear him chewing whatever was available at three fifteen in the afternoon of what I guessed was a Friday.

I started to feel the fire build in my body, slowly ascending toward a crescendo of screams, and I reached for the button in time. It clicked, and the screams descended until it held a single note with a single voice, eventually fading as I clicked again, the haptic feedback in my hand indicated that the system was engaging the lockout with a loud beep, which was probably for the best.

"...continue to burn in the norther regions of Quebec and into Ontario, causing mass evacuations of all communities north of the 53rd parallel. A spokesperson for the Gendarme Du Quebec's Hydro-Québec CRU-QC team expressed concern over the generating stations in the region, fearing mass power outages across most of Quebec that could cause wider systemic damage than initially estimated. Similarly, in Ontario, the Ministry of Energy, Northern Development and Mines expressed concerns over access to the Ring of Fire, fearing that OPG forces leaving the region due to the wildfire would invite American occupation and exploitation of the region's rich resources."

"That'd be a shame," Jeff's sarcasm was thick and vast, "Quebec in the dark and mining stopped, too damn bad."

The TV abruptly switched back to advertisements, featuring the same Swiffer Wet Jet commercial from earlier. From my angle I could tell Jeff activated the TV guide, and started to look for something else. "You doing alright over there?"

I took a moment to consider my options. He knew I was awake, the clicks and lockout beep gave that away.

"Good man. How you?"

"Like shit. This pudding sucks."

"Better than no pudding at all."

Jeff doesn't really have the best sense of humor, which is why I still defaulted to 'Good man. How you?' when asked about, as my grandfather would have, the 'State of my Constitution', which, constitutionally speaking, was quite poor. Thinking about it further, he would have had quite a bit to say about the state of our national constitution had he not died in 2008.

While I was trying not to think about our modern ecological disaster ear, Jeff put on a baseball game between Hokkaido and and Kansas City. I didn't mind.

"What are you in for bud?"

It takes me a minute, which I find weird. "Car accident, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I'm not really sure. I mean I was in a car, and then I wasn't, and my leg is fucked up."

"Some accident."

"What about you?"

"Murder one."

"..."

"Nah, I'm just messing around. Spinal fracture from compression. A missile I didn't hear coming hit our position. Got paid out from the company, so I'm waiting here until I don't have to."

Another inning goes by and the doctor or nurse or whoever came in.

"So, Mr. Buttler, we have your genetics in, and you're not in the database, which is good. But not good because according to the PMC's database with MerCorp, you're supposed to be. I guess are now, though. So tell me, do you remember what happened?"

I shook my head.

"You were traveling to a position with three men, do you remember who they were?

"Mercs. I think Force something?"

"Force of Upper Columbia, right. I won't fault you not having the whole name. Do you remember the kind of car you were in?"

"Yeah, a Bronco."

"Then what do you remember?"

"Trying to get up, couldn't."

"Okay. The best guess we have is that you hit a mine."

"A mine?"

"Some PMCs still have them, some groups steal them from armories and sell them on the black market," he started taking notes on his clipboard as he spoke. "Luckily, though, you did have a MerCorp-approved rescue beacon on the right setting. If you didn't I'm not sure you or the other guy would have made it."

"Who else made it?"

"Front passenger side, he's down the hall. Different insurance coverage."

"Yeah he can probably see the TV."

"Hm?"

"Never mind. I'll catch up with him eventually, I'm sure."

"Right. So you are still registered as a capture, so you are in the locked unit for now, though it's not like you're moving anywhere in the next couple days. We'll get you in for surgery and implants in a day or two and then you'll probably be on your way with the Upper Columbians, or one of their affiliated groups if they don't get here. Their coverage covers your stay, so that's handled. I guess that's really it. Do you have any questions?"

"Where am I?"

"MerCorp Field Hospital 3, Central Ontario."

"Where's that?"

"We're about seven miles from Lake Simcoe. Once you're up and at 'em after surgery, there's a really nice sunset outside in the secure yard. But that's a problem for another day. If you need anything else," he trailed off, but his voice went higher as though he were asking a question.

I didn't reply.

"All right, see you in a while."

After he left, I overheard the same Swiffer Wet Jet commercial play once again on the TV. Laying back in my hospital bed, I thought about my family, my truck, and what the hell was going to happen next.