Rimanoa

A safe road through the shit

August 20, 20:34 PM.

"Here, we'll pass through here, then here and come out here. — the collective farmer explained to me. — Where we go next is up to you…"

"So you're saying there's a shitload of shit in the communications under the East River?" "Yes."

I looked up at him, he was a head taller than me, "Up to your neck?" "Yes."

"You mean I'm going to have to swim there?" "I guess."

"In that case, we'll have to swim over the top."

"Your business, but you know, even though I've been climbing sewers for a long time and I'm used to the stench, I don't get much pleasure from it…"

"Yeah my job isn't great either, so you do as you're told, now I'm going to go change and you wait by the hatch."

"Good."

I went to the designated room and began my transformation from a smartly dressed man to an ordinary gas worker. The first thing that went down was my raincoat, followed by my pants. After I had to remove the mechanism from the MSP "Groza" and put it in a waterproof bag, then all the attributes of my "inconspicuous" suitcase went there, except for my laptop and passports (I had only one passport with me, made immediately after my release, the rest exploded with another diplomat before I was caught). Then, taking off my shirt, I pulled on the suit prepared for me and shoved the former clothes into the same bag.

When Farmer saw me, he almost fell through his favorite hatch in the underground garage of our "embassy." "And I thought you were going in your suit, Mr. "

"Just call me Joe," — why I chose that particular name this time, I don't know myself. "Paul, it's a pleasure," — we shook hands and got in the shit.

Before I could get to the bottom, I smelled such a stench that I almost threw up.

It was very dark, but you could see banana skins, the remains of pads and diapers, blurry absorbent cotton, colorful pieces of paper and so on, as well as, of course, the shit itself, without much difficulty.

The collective farmer lit a flashlight, and so did I. After Farmer tied me with a rope to himself, waved me towards the big darkness ahead and "went into his own business," followed by comrade Faust.

We'd been walking for a few minutes when Paul turned right and for a moment the beam of his "firefly" disappeared completely around the corner (I was surprised that the light didn't spread a bit into the immediate area, so it felt like I was walking there alone) and the rope tightened and started to yank.

I got to the end of the corner and saw the collective farmer there, walking already at a distance that took my body about twice as long to cover as it did his.

"Well, what a shitty thing to do. — I thought. — Our tour guide is speeding up, forgetting about the tourists "