Underwater, in a sealed metal tube long enough for a game of lacrosse, three men play cards. Two sit giggling after the third- named Clayton- leaves to get some food. He comes back to the bunk with a sandwich and says, "We ran out of bolo..." Stops mid-sentence, face contorts. He shields his nose in the crook of his arm and barks, "Who's been eating cabbage?!"
At this spark of accusation, the powder keg of giggles ignites. Flaming up and exploding in rib-cracking laughter. Holding their guts, trying to not cry from laughter, they explain the situation. But can't stop laughing. Unable to form a coherent thought. Not a sentence or a word. A couple of grunts and half-syllables are all that can handle.
Clayton stares dumbfounded. Covering his nose with his shirt, he holds his breath and pulls it down to take a bite of his sandwich. He waits for his friends to compose themselves and tell him what's so funny. Finally, one man calms down enough to take a deep-breath and rise to a knee. Andrew is his name. "Clayton," he starts... then stops, then chuckles. Chest rumbling, threatening to release the laugh. He closes his eyes and takes a deep-breath. He gets the word "Clayton," uttered. Then laughs and pauses. Laughter keeps nterrupting him. He forces his face into that of a statue and continues. "The smell you're referring to must have emanated from none other than 'your' ASS!" And he loses it, laughing so hard he thinks he might puke.
Not to be outdone, Brandon- the final member of our trio- sits up. Throwing his fist in the air, declares, "He who smelt it surely dealt it." They continue to laugh.
"I don't think so," Clayton begins, but Andrew says;
"Oh, cut the crap."
"Unless you stepped in it," chimes in Brandon. Both his friends give him a look that says, 'shut up, grownups are talking.' He folds his arms across his chest and mopes while Andrew continues;
"We know that's why you left. The smell began right when you walked out that door." Andrew points out the bunk for effect. "We're not dumb. It was a joke."
"But I didn't do it," insists Clayton.
"You think one of us did it? We're pinning it on you? Is that it? How childish." Andrew says and rolls his eyes. Trying to show his moral superiority but coming off as pompous. He looks to Brandon for support, finding nothing but contempt. Brandon glowers, then says to Andrew;
"You 'were' the one who blamed Clay. Maybe you smelled it first. Maybe you are responsible for the unclaimed fart."
"Oh, don't be silly," Andrew says, defending himself. Brandon stands upright and whines;
"Now I'm silly because I don't agree with you?"
"We were having fun, now you're getting all touchy."
"You always do this, belittling me."
Trying to prove a point, Clayton interjects; "Your diet isn't very good."
"What?" Brandon asks.
"Your diet," Clayton clarifies, "is garbage. You sleep-fart sometimes and it smells real bad."
"Don't you get started now."
"I'm saying you were pretty quick to blame me. Then as soon as I denied it, you pointed right along to Andy." Clayton puts his palms up and shrugs his shoulders. Glances at Andrew, gives him an upturned lip and says, "It was him. What do you think?" Not getting drawn in, Andrew defends Brandon;
"These are mind-games. We all know you did it," he says. "Come on, confess."
"But I didn't do it."
Tensions rise, and the air grows stale with sweat and stench. The only sound is a sandwich and some wretched gags as they try to get used to the smell. The three men grimace, stare, clench fists. Then a knock comes from the door outside their bunk. It's Davis. He comes in carrying a red, cast-iron pipe-wrench, longer than his arm. He informs them, “The toilets up-deck are blocked. Sorry for the smell.”
The three men slap each other’s back, then keep losing at cards.
