Rawpocalypse

6 - Buck

Clive "Buck" Buxton waded through the narrow airplane, his love handles, as he proudly proclaimed them, brushing the shoulders of passengers on each side in passing. He eased into his cramped seat, stifling his urge to gasp for air, clinging to his assertion that he was as physically fit as the former teammates he'd left only hours before.

"Whew-ee," Buck said to the stranger next to him. "I pity anyone who gets that load dropped on them."

The casually dressed businessman turned with minor annoyance and plucked out an ear-bud. "Excuse me?"

Buck thumbed over his shoulder. "Something I ate went straight through me. I had to flush three times to get it all down. And woo-hoo it reeked of death."

The man stared back in stupefied horror. "Uh . . ."

"T. M. I.?"

"Er, uh, you do know they don't actually expel the waste from the bottom of the plane?"

Buck cocked his hand like a pistol and fired at the man. "Wrong! That's what everyone thought after Myth Mania debunked it. But don't you follow WikiLeaks? They say the producers of Myth Mania are under the thumb of the federal government."

"That's absurd."

"You're damn right it is. It's about time we were told the truth. And if you ask me, what's the big secrecy behind dropping a few turds from the sky? They're biodegradable aren't they?"

"No, no, I mean to say . . . Oh hell, nevermind." The man adjusted slightly to face Buck and took on a new frankness. "Now listen, if that were true we'd have human excrement splattering on windshields and such."

"Nah," said Buck with a chuckle. "They don't drop the payload over populated areas. They shoot for lakes and oceans mostly. Dense forest, that sort of thing."

"You seriously believe that, don't you?"

"Damn straight."

The man measured Buck thoughtfully, then removed the other ear-bud. "Do you work for a living?"

"What kind of question is that?" said Buck, indignantly. He tugged at his t-shirt. "I don't paddy-cake around in fancy clothes inside a stuffy office, but I put food on the table."

"They must pay well," the man muttered.

Buck drew a deep breath through flared nostrils. "Lucky for you I'm a lover not a fighter."

The man's eyes widened, the idea of a physical spar seeming something he'd failed to consider. "I-I only meant to point out that you're obviously doing well."

"Because I'm fat?"

"No, no," the businessman said, nearing the point of panic. "Because of your clothes. That shirt for example, it isn't all faded and stretched out at the neck."

Buck unclenched the fingers he'd unknowingly balled into fists. "Ah, good thing I didn't wear my favorite shirt then. You'd peg me as a street bum."

The man laughed nervously.

After an extended silence, Buck adjusted in his seat. "I'm a stock car driver, to answer your question."

"Ah, I see. As in cattle and pigs?"

"No, not livestock,"said Buck, rotating an imaginary steering wheel. "I race cars. Dirt track. Nothing big time like NASCAR though."

"Oh! Exciting nonetheless."

"Yup, it gets the heart pumping all right."

The man laughed unexpectedly. "I'd rather be at the race track. I saw that on your shirt and thought you were a gambling man."