The year is 2018. The planet’s population has reached critical mass. The political climate in North America has become a catastrophic arena occupied by tribal, contentious ideologues. The expression of ideas been reduced to Social Media Newspeak, and the trivial issues facing society have taken precedent over matters of legitimate importance. Sides are being taken, values are changing, and there are more fucking stupid Youtube channels than ever before.
The nation of Canada, while remaining a moderately safe habitat to reside in, is quickly deteriorating into a wasteland of consumerism and shitty rap music. With limited space, resources, and deadly conflict in other countries, many are taking refuge in this rapidly eroding sanctuary. Despite increasing global chaos and the progressively depleting condition of the environment, people still can’t seem to stop buying useless shit. Lots of useless shit.
My convoy has been transported to a storage facility in Victoria, BC, to retrieve supplies for relocation. Our labour will contribute to the alleviation of a square-foot shortage imposed by legions of hoarders and deserters. Noble as the effort may be, the space we clear will undoubtedly be used for more crap like ugly paintings and computer-swivel chairs with one broken wheel.
My crew arrive with empty trucks and full bowels, fatigued from our travels on the deadly, lawless highway traffic of the Malahat.
Will we survive this metal maze of doors, storage dwellers and madness? Will we collect our crap and clear our lockers without incident? Will we successfully reach our TARGET?
Press Enter Key.
We enter the facility with minimal parking incidents. A relieving notion, considering the usual surplus of douchy 4X4 pickup trucks often idling outside such buildings.
Due to the time constraints of our team’s itinerary, our work must be done in haste. Even though delving deep into Target’s dark, mysterious caverns is strictly cited as being a distraction from mission objectives, human biology waits for no such protocol.
I quickly approach the infantry stationed in the front office. She is a courteous, patient soul whose even-tempered disposition has undoubtedly been tested repeatedly in such a posting.
Assigning me the BATHROOM KEY, she directs me toward the south hall, cautioning me of the potential disorientation in finding the evacuation-chamber. (Down the hall, and to the right).
I unwisely separate from my team, wasting no time to find release at any cost.
I immediately realize I am unprepared for what lies ahead. It’s been nearly 7 years since the Storage Wars, and some of the remaining mercenaries still dwell in the cavities of these, dungeon-like domiciles—salvaging what is left from a lost time of battle that gave their lives purpose.
The first combatant sizes me up and concludes I have no desire to bid on any of his loot. To him, my worn out Vans and disheveled hair are indicative that I am not a threat. He waddles past me without a word.
The second former-conscript won’t let me go so easily.
He aggressively approaches with an oafish, clumsy stumble. His macaroni and chicken-wing breath pollute the oxygen content in the hall.
Thankfully, the BATHROOM KEY I attained from the front desk suffices as an effective blunt weapon.
Having dodged certain death, (or a mind-numbing conversation with this inbred mutant), my tense body finally begins to relax as I approach the thunder-pot enclosure.
The door instructs me to knock, so I comply cautiously. Or at least as cautiously as my suddenly hairy arms and large knuckles will allow. I also notice that I have a thick steel ring now, too, and I’m not even a ring-wearing kind of guy.
Since this is a locking door, I’m not sure why the inquiry is necessary; but as soon as my brutal, manly fists land on the surface, a loud commotion erupts on the other side.
I hear a monstrous roar informing me that the room is occupied. The voice is strained, yet intimidating. The sound of a temperamental beast cleansing his colon of digested mortal waste.
I stand clear as the door opens, only to find that this supposed beast is nothing more than a typical Crossfit enthusiast, likely at Target to pick up an unused weightlifting bench or something.
I inch my way past his chesterfield-sized shoulders and enter the latrine carrel.
The scent inside is surprisingly non-offensive. A hint of Brut cologne—but not concentrated enough to inflict the type of brain damage correlated with the infamous fragrance.
The gym rat has also left behind some toilet tissue carnage. Although my avocation has conditioned me to endure leftovers of multiple varieties, I still have a tough time with severed body parts.
As my bubbly, liquified bacon rations vacate my body at impressive speed, a euphoric state causes my vision to become crudely pixellated and blocky. I survey the room, intrigued by its contents.
Usually this time would be spent on my Smartphone viewing the vacation photos of “Suggested Friends” on Facebook, but the room is so morbid that I am engaged enough by what lies in front of me.
The remaining bloodshed of storage-warriors is splattered on a hot-water heater, hanging dangerously from the ceiling. This is likely a trap to deter any barbaric intruders seeking to pillage the room. Or maybe it was just an afterthought.
I can sense the tormented, lingering souls of these casualties — eternally haunting the premises in a foul, fecal hell of porcelain perdition.
It appears as if Target is in such dire need of additional space that they have resorted to allocating repository cabinets in their latrine.
This feature is very telling of the times we are living in. You can store shit where you shit, while you shit. Usually only shit that no one really gives a shit about, though.
On second thought, maybe it’s just bathroom supplies in there. Good call on the locks.
In concluding my biological business, I am happy to report that the supply of waste-paper is sufficient.
Approaching the wash-basin, I am impressed with the upkeep of its cleanliness. I take advantage of this time to replenish my health with the complimentary blue-bottles of liquid that cure ailments and diseases.
Normally I wouldn’t drink any beverage provided in a bathroom, but I’m thirsty for some blue goo, damnit.
The Target facility clearly aims to keep this rinse-station strictly professional, prohibiting storage-dwellers from using it for their domestic hygiene affairs. Seriously, though. Who in the hell is brushing their teeth in here?
Having rid myself of toxins in and outside of my body, I feel vast improvements in my functioning. The soap smells pretty good, too.
The BAY WEST 89-500 hand-towel dispensary system is fully operational and free from any debris, blood, or bodily fluids. Pulling the lever yields plenty of paper. It shuffles out generously with a satisfying scrape sound.
It’s time to get back to my team. Determined now to complete our initial objectives, I make my way back into the halls. Upon reaching the loading dock, I feel something drip on my forehead.
I panic. Thinking that I may have walked beneath another hot water tank boogie-trap, I frantically wipe the substance off my face and turn around. Looking up, I am aghast at what I find:
Yes, it’s the remains of Trent Reznor, the front man of Nine Inch Nails. Evidently, he met his fate in this storage-cell of hell on earth. The assigned officers working this station clearly respected the man’s work enough to leave the corpse hanging fresh—adding an honourable engraving on the steel furnace he dangles from.
I shudder thinking of what pain and agony he must have gone through in this industrial confine of torture and material obsolescence. Sure must have Hurt.
This distraction has cost me time. I curse the stupid, sexy 90s Trent Reznor corpse after realizing my team are nowhere to be found. I am now faced with the task of finding our locker by myself. Without the ELEVATOR KEY, my fate suddenly becomes uncertain.
To my dismay, the front-office infantry is nowhere to be found. It could take hours to locate her in Target’s labyrinth of lockers. Frightened as I am, my mission must be completed. I begin searching the halls, but making one bad turn could cost me my li—