Since the place I'd stumbled into was RBRistan, the only jobs they had here
were in the cleanup trade, and for my first assignment, I was jammed into
the back of a pickup truck, one night, with 10 others like myself, and taken
to a famous Northwestern lake, now quietly strewn with the body-parts from
multiple freak collisions between jet-skiers and water-skiers.
Our task, once we'd cleaned up the water, was to continue on to land, to
clean up some hunters who'd been so startled by the screams from the
jet-skier/water-skier collisions, that they'd all accidentally shot each
other, as well as some people on nearby golf courses, who we cleaned up
next.
Then, we had to go cleanup the trails where some joggers had been killed by
direct frontal lobe hits from golf balls viciously hooked or sliced by
golfers shot dead or wounded at the precise moment of ball-clubhead impact.
And then we had to go cleanup the tennis courts where some frightened
joggers had run to try to escape the gunfire but, instead, were killed by
the players for disrupting their game, or accidentally hit and killed by a
vicious volley off the racket of someone suddenly startled by the
deathsounds of racehorses on the way to the track who'd just had their
trailers slammed into by nitro-fuelled funny car drivers who'd just spun out
of control because they'd been hit by linedrives from a baseball game in a
nearby stadium where the players had lost their concentration because a fan
doing a Heimlich maneuver on his choking wife in the bleachers had failed
and the wife fallen over dead, smothering a small child asleep beside her
whose despondent parents tried to shoot themselves over this, but kept
missing and wound up killing everybody else in the stands, instead.
And, of course, we had to clean all that up too.