Workday #2: The Thaw of Misfortune
The alarm clock is my own body trembling inside the shipping container. Today is a glorious workday at Gorsky Mansion! I'm so excited I almost piss my pants—but then I remember I'd freeze instantly and have to trudge to work like a penguin in shame.
The day's task is worthy of a Homeric epic: removing frozen shit from a bathroom whose pipes burst overnight. Apparently, the mansion's heating system is as reliable as a sandcastle in a tsunami.
Ernesto, the head janitor (a man who's seen things that would make a vampire weep), hands me the sacred tool for the mission: a crowbar specialized for frozen shit. He entrusts the relic to me with the solemnity of a knight passing on his sword, providing I promise to return it. I swear by all that is holy (which, at the moment, is the heater in the break room).
While I fight stalactites of solidified human feces, Ernesto fights the boiler, which emits grunts and threats in a mechanical dialect. It's a battle on two fronts: man versus nature (the most disgusting) and man versus machine (the most ill-tempered).
By noon, victory is ours. The heat returns. The bathroom transforms into a stinking tropical swamp. I trade my glorious crowbar for a mop and bucket. The promotion is dubious.
Lunch is a mortadella sandwich that I somehow manage to swallow. The flavor is a mixture of rubber, desperation, and a faint aftertaste of public restroom ether. It's the meal of a champion. A champion of what, I don't know.
Now, my mind weakened by the fumes and mortadella, I ponder my next masterful move:
( ) I'll see if I can learn more about Harmonie Palys. The girl with the glove-hand. Maybe the library holds more secrets about her. Or maybe I'll just find more moldy books. The promise of not having to dig through frozen shit is tempting.
( ) I need to find some other Garou and formally introduce myself. "Hello, my name is Pedameo, I'm a pathetic werewolf, my predominant scent is of disinfectant and defeat, and my current territory is an exploded toilet. Can we be friends?" What could go wrong?
( ) I'm going to Hadley to investigate Jasper Heaney. The poem of leather and flesh. Dead. Burned-down house. Sounds like a solid plane, and it doesn't involve the smell of thawed poop. Just the smell of ash and mystery. A mood-enhancing one, let's face it.
Next: Choosing the next catastrophe.