Trip

You're a random 32 year old, delivering parcels for ThisCorp. You rent a van from Not-a-Scam rental company, to get work from Shit Ltd, a subcontractor with ThisCorp. ThisCorp and/or Shit Ltd sends you on roads tighter than the width of your van. It's only a matter of time until you damage it. With only 5 days of notice, Not-a-Scam takes it back from you just because they have to change their entire fleet, for whatever reasons. You end up with £2K in debt for some scratches you don't have time to fix yourself, and even if you did you could end up getting charged anyway, because when you return the van they check the thickness of the paint to see if it was resprayed. You have no energy left to fight this, you sold it to ThisCorp for pennies.

Why didn't you have money to buy your own van in the first place?

Because you're a few months into your recovery from severe high stakes gambling addiction.

Wait, isn't that a life-long process?

It is.

So why mention that you're "a few months in"?

Because the action happens in the timeframe of "you've barely just paid back what you owed due to your filth". Now shut up and let me continue this, so that maybe the filth will be no more.

Sunday evening, your manager is asking if you fancy changing the decor a bit: you agree, thinking about better pay and the £2K you owe to Not-a-Scam, on top of whatever else you have to pay. You start the next day preparing for the unknown in the best ways you can think of, packing everything that proved so useful last time you went away for work: from clothes and a lot of underwear to hygene and kitchenware and that panacea cream your mother made at home, with shea butter, love and essential oils.

It's Monday morning and one of your housemates decides to occupy the only bathroom for his almost sacred habit of brainwashing himself with short videos on the toilet for at least half an hour. You bet he walks as if he had a dildo up his rectum this whole time in there, but there's no time to find out if your bet wins.

Oh, you celebrated your birthday on Saturday evening and slept through most of Sunday? So what if you still smell like apricot brandy and sins? It's not his fault that you chose writing instead of showering last night, and you don't have much of a reputation to maintain clean anyway. It's not all that bad that you didn't shower. Wet wipes and a lot of deodorant work just fine. Nah, it certainly doesn't feel like you're homeless, ignore that thought. Correct, you're about to meet new people you'll have to work with, so you'd better not let intense body odours outshine your confidence anyhow. But all this takes extra time. You're late. Don't be. It's your first impression, so floor it. You slow down time by using the fast lane at an average speed of 81 mph. You manage thus to catch up with time and you don't intend to stop. One cigarette later, your bladder and the diesel tank choose against that decision. You've been holding it in for a while and now you've got to give the Ceasar what belongs to the Ceasar. You certainly hope he didn't use to like warm beer. You understand the seriousness of this when the empty tank in the dashboard lights up at the same time with the sudden pressure increase in your bladder. Contrary to your usual self-awareness, in these moments you really try identifying as a woman, hoping that maybe you'll hold Niagara Falls for a bit longer. You then enjoy the opportunity to Kegel the shit out of that muscle, but that's a worse of an idea than the one before. You slide out of the motorway at more than 80 mph, you got no time for pussy ass driving. The exit is free, apart from some trucks ahead, comfortably far. They move along precisely as you get into the roundabout, as if they cleared it for you especially. In the last picosecond before tragedy you slam the brake pedal and turn left for the garage. Your bladder translates this hard turn better than a gyroscope, rewarding you accordingly, with more pressssssssss

Ah, fuck. You're lucky your pants are made out of shiny black polyester that makes liquids invisible, at least from your perspective. Tiny droplets of piss is what your dick sings with its pufferfish mouth that looks like a cute lil vajene. You release just a bit and then hold it again, but the pressure is very much higher now. The car stereo is blasting Dirtyphonics - Walk in the fire [1:12] as you pull over into the petrol station, admist your first Super Saiyan transformation, without which holding would be impossible. You get out of the van and you're soaked from all that ferocious clench of your urethral muscles. It's not even spring outside yet, and your body temperature drops, giving you the chills. Your bladder responds to that by making you skip a few good DBZ episodes, and now you're already Super Saiyan 2. There's people. DO NOT make any faces. You don't need any ridicule. That could easily slip into laughter and you'd piss yourself laughing. You giggle at this very thought on your way into the shop and congratulations, you now have that long, smashin haircut of a Super Saiyan 3. All that with the pokerest poker face you can pull off, and you can't do much better than the cover of The Shining. You take a few steps towards the toilet door, laser-focusing your view where the colours of vacant/occupied should decide wether you're worthy of salvation or not, but you can't see them because someone else got to redemption faster. As you arrive at the queue, the door opens and now you're next in line. Time dilates. If only you knew you could manipulate time by clenching your peepee, you'd have avoided all that speeding. You haven't watched enough Dragon Ball to figure out what kind of cartoon character you now depict. You listen through the toilet door, trying to manifest that flushing sound into your life already. The guy in there is the best out of the best lads in the world for not washing, thus minimizing the time you have to spend in hell and you are now saaaved by the Loooooord Aaaaalmighty Jesus Halleluyah! (said in the way of those American people who go to church a lot)

You then inspect for damages and you see how every transformation you went through had a rather substantial effect on your clothes, but you have access to this powerful hand dryer that does function continuously, which blows this all away. You pissed your pants, king, but it doesn't count. So you parade out of there indeed like royalty, with the "Mission Passed" sound effect from GTA San Andreas in sync with your steps. You suddenly raise your eyebrows and start walking towards the pumps as if you're coked up, remembering that you also have to get diesel, and you are so fucking late! You fuel up and continue driving like you stole it, to make up for all those irreplaceable minutes that were part of the trigger of this whole writing phase in your life.

You arrive at your new depot only with a couple of minutes delay and you're greeted by your new manager for this area. You see her and [Massive Attack - Angel 2:16] you can already feel the million tons you'd weigh if she was gravity. At last, you're not the only one from another planet. All that, stemming from just a vibe, a look and a brief dialogue that you can't remember what it was about, because she made your heart redirect most of your blood towards non-neural tissues. You immediately replace these thoughts with triviality, as soon as you feel your guts screaming at you to do so, as there's nothing wise about them.