Two Spot Sevens

Feeling relieved that I didn't have to relive the experience of hauling another body out of the woods this spring in addition to 500 pounds of crushed fiberglass and steel, I cranked back a couple of caffeine pills, took a sip of water from my dented up Aurora thermos. Looking at the Skidoo that had wrapped itself around a birch tree, I didn't see any sign of a body, any blood, or a head anywhere. Whatever firearm the guy had wasn't around as well, so it was clear he walked away. Opening my coat, I pulled out my dad's old Sven-saw and carefully spun the wingnut on the end, taking care to catch it in my hand. Tucking the Aurora thermos under my arm I unfolded the blade and stuck the handle into the notch, and redid the wingnut.

Realizing its availability, I stuck the Aurora thermos in the skidoo's cup holder, and walked around to the front. Seeing the front of the sled wrapped firmly around the birch tree, I determined it to be completely fucked in terms of operability, and was better as scrap than a repair job. I'm guessing the PMC who was driving had a few drinks or, I don't know, toots on something and didn't see where he was going.

Feeling my endurance waning while the pills process in my guts, I feel around my pants for my smokes, but thought twice, remembering that there may still be gasoline in the tank.

Crawling over the windscreen, I worked the saw with both hands to free what remained of the front left ski from the brambles it had been caught in over the course of last week's rapid thaw. It had been burn-your-lungs-out cold less than two weeks ago. Now, with the sun beaming through the trees, I had to take my toque off to keep from overheating.

Working the saw methodically through the last few branches I took a better look and saw that the right ski had caught a rock and snapped completely off somewhere back towards the tree line. Deciding that I'd make it a problem to solve later, I felt my stomach growl, I grabbed my thermos from the wreckage, and headed back toward the house.

What a shithole.

After the PMCs left, I managed to get the kitchen door back on the frame and screwed in with a dozen Robertsons. Looking at the four dents around the handle as I walked by, hearing around to the front door, I thought about how I hadn't heard the three tries before they finally got the door open because, I guessed, because of the flashbang.

Coming around the front of the house, I smoothed down some of the duct tape keeping the cardboard on my front window. Clark was pessimistic about replacement panes of glass coming in, even with the American withdrawal, but he'd try his best to get stuff moved up from back order. He also sold me the sawmill I never use, and suggested I use that for the kitchen door if he could source the hardware for me. Offered to help me hang it too, which isn't a bad idea if I can get the logs cut.

Taking off my steel-toe rain boots in my front hall, I put the thermos down and I held the Sven-Saw in my left hand. The damn nut was stuck again. Holding it blade forward, I heard a weird rapid tapping around the corner. The tapping grew louder and sidestepping out of my kitchen and directly in front of me was an electric Blue Boston Dynamics Spot-7 equipped with a submachine gun attachment trained at my center of mass.

"Is that you Miiiiiiiiiiitch?"

Jack. Fuck.

"Can you tell your dog not to shoot me?"

"It's set to defend. What do you have, some garden shears or something?"

"Saw."

"Well put it down or something." I can hear that his mouth is full

I stand the saw on end against the wall, and the submachine gun barrel drops to the floor. The Spot-7 retreats back into my kitchen, where Jack is standing over my sink eating something. Another blue Spot-7, with an articulation arm, is standing beside him. He's wearing a leather coat, but underneath it he's wearing a Hawaiian shirt that features flamingos and ferns as the print pattern.

He stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth. It's slathered in my peanut butter, and my honey. "I see you met my new dogs," he says, dripping honey into my sink, "I haven't named them yet. I might call them," he takes another bite, "Shooty Smurf and Grabby Smurf," he says with his mouth is full, "on account of the color."

"Listen Jack, I don't not appreciate your visit, but," I say. "We have a strictly transactional relationship and I don't have any one for you."

"That's the thing. Mitch. I'm here about our transactional relationship. Do you have the papers on your last guy?

Fuck.

"Yeah b'y," I say, trying to stay cool. I was sure my paperwork was fine, but this was giving me pause.

Handing over the 8-799 and 9-7-799 Capture and Capture for Detention forms for Matthew, Jack takes a closer look.

"I see the problem," he says, chomping on his toast.

"Problem?"

"Yeah. Missing a T."

"What?"

"Yeah, I think we have a problem. You filled this out Matthew Butler. The ID you sent me matches a missing persons report filed for a Matthew Buttler with the Canadian Embassy in Virginia."

"Yeah?"

"The problem is that our records only have one Matthew Butler on file, who's a high-risk Merger Extremist from Lloydminster."

Albertans.

"Your guy, did he have any tattoos?"

"No?"

"Nothing on the chest?"

"No."

"No like... deer, or hart, or stag or anything like that?"

"Aren't those the same?'

"No tattoo."

"Not that I saw."

Jack looks at me straight in the face, peanut butter around the side of his lip.

"Mitchell... you really should pay more attention when filling out forms."