'The Tiramiseur'

I was needed again, my pager alerted me of that much. I shaved, put on my shirt and headed out the door. On the way I grabbed my much needed tool which was on the threshold, leaning against my tasteful porcelain nymph lamp. The roads were mostly bare, save for a few unfortunate late night errand runners and drunks on tractors. I doubt they were heading into the same thing that I was at a brisk 55 miles per hour. 

By the time I arrived the bulk of the commotion had died out, the deer that inhabit the ranch were missing; only their fawn remained huddled as a mass inside of a large fiberglass castle like little spotted fuzzy goldfish. I went back to the car, popped the trunk, and grabbed my supply pale along with a warm diet mountain mist from my ineffective cooler. I popped the top on my refreshment and looked to the ground for clues on the direction my assignment, which knocked over fence posts and deer tracks revealed to be into the forest, wonderful.

There is little more in life I hate than the forest. It might be the lack of human tampering or the smell of rotten leaves and squirrel shit but it is not a place I would prefer to spend my Saturday mornings. I followed the trail for a good while, now following the growing noise to my in front of me. Through the trees and brush I could see a familiar blue light. When you’re in my line of work the scene was mundane, the deer carcasses that littered the pass ahead of me were of no surprise. I was surprised they had gotten this far really. The shrill evenly spaced bleeping sound the beacons let out halted as I drew near. Their blue color confirmed that my colleagues had been and gone already, and the threat neutralized. I took my instrument off my back and began the cleanup.

As I scooped up some twisted, charred deer arms, or I suppose on deer they're legs, I wished that I would be assigned an upgraded model of my Nitra-shovel. The new ones really have a just few more novel features but, if anything, a functioning giger-grip or a normalizing pack canister that wasn’t held on with electric tape would be nice. By now I was used to the smell of protein sapped meat, but it’s just the awful way the eyes continue staring into nothingness that makes me uneasy. It was getting light, so the light glow that the bodies let off was dimmed, but I mostly had a completed pile, my agency doesn’t mind the occasional left behind toe or earlobe, as long as the incident is secluded enough. I pushed the button on my pager and turned the blue signals on the incident beacon to white, signaling to my overseers that the work was done. I packed my supply pail up and headed back to my government Issued station wagon. One day I had hoped to meet someone else at my organization, but I suppose rules there for a reason and if the guys at top didn’t want us mingling beyond colored lights or comically arranged piles of livestock parts then so be it.  I headed back home for another six or so months of rest.

This was the second in a series of creative writings I did for a copy-writing class way back in 2009, which I thought would make an entertaining enough post to this blog where I write things. Though my writing isn't my strongest suite I think there's some value in these works so I will continue to post the better of them with the added value of pixelated illustrations to go with each of them.