A lake of the foulest soup: the chilly broth churned with my every motion,
twirling tiny bits of months-old decay about my fingers' tips. Of course,
I could only actually see this motion if I raked my hands across the surface
of that pond, scraping away the slick film of mold growing on top of it.
I can only liken the pool to a sea of rotting, watered-down baby vomit; and,
the only way to be able to bring both hands to bear on the broken drainpipe
was to just lay down in it. While the putrescence soaked into my hair and
clothing, there was only the blare of terrible radio pop and thudding of
10-year-olds' dance steps shaking the floor above me.

The floodwaters thankfully reached only high enough to saturate the fiberglass
insulation on the underside of the floor. The soggy mass pulled itself from its
staples, tearing apart under its own wet weight. Armfull after armfull is packed
into trash bags, and bag after bag is dragged to the entrance, and pushed
outside - I myself may only leave this place to pull out the very last bag. Any
sooner, and I will have quit before the job is done. Drownéd hives of rats fall
from the sopping mess as it's taken apart, their final defense against the
enthalpic machinations of man coming in the form of bloated corpses and handfulls
of literal shit cascading into my face.

The intrusive water has done nothing to soften the clay I grind my knees into;
the occasional jutting stone becomes unnoticed, as the constant pressure eventually
numbs the joints as a whole. The subflooring is exposed to the open air again, and
will dry, and the latent oceans will be swallowed deeply by the earth, and then,
the new insulation will be installed, raining down upon me a microscopic haze, any
bit of which that squeezes itself past the edges of my dust mask is inhaled, to
become a part of my own body forever.

This house may soon be a home; the greatest gift to my community. A place for new
life to flourish, and families to form. Respite from the strains of work; the atom
of society. But, the crawlspace access is outside, and has been uncovered for
uncounted years. There is the glint of wild eyes in the darkness before me. Goddamnit
cat, get out of the crawlspace. I made this access cover but you need to go before I
can put it on or you will be stuck here. I am throwing things towards you, which means
"please leave the crawlspace stupid cat". Fine, I'll just grab your dumb ass. Oh you
are an angry possum.

A slide of my thumb, and the blade of my utility knife is readied. I check to ensure
there is still a nickle in my pocket - a tip for Charon, should either of us need see
him this day. A clear path of egress is left for my enemy, and the light is at my back;
there is no room for further preparation, but only the application of necessary force.
A possum tore out my cat's rectum - I expect no quarter.

Nor have I any to spare.

The infractious biomatter is removed; the standards of building code enforced. The
battlefield is hidden forever by the pliance and fragrance of fresh new vapor barrier.
The cigarette hanging slack from my lips has exhausted itself. My legs feel detached,
and I rise from the lawn with cautious effort, ambling towards the open trash bag. I
imagine the naked eye of a well-slashed adversary peering up towards me, unblinking.
My body beaten from the week's work, only my heart has the energy to give thanks for
my foe's wisdom. The access is covered; the possum cannot return. Its only trace now
is the saturating reek of its urine hanging thickly from the dirt I've ground into my
clothing, and the haunting memory of its ratlike face emerging from the dark, toothfirst.

-Furypants, from the Something Awful "Dirty Jobs" thread