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Wednesday, April 18, 2001

         Todd Ferguson woke up for the fifth time that morning and groggily eyed the alarm clock - 5:25 am, it read - and for the fifth time, he swung his arm around to smack the snooze button. He rolled over and lazily slipped back into his dream. It was a good dream. He was having a threesome with two incredibly hot blondes. Although, oddly, it was at his parent’s house. The alarm went off again.
         “Ok, ok,” Todd mumbled and threw his blanket to the side. He laid still for another minute before finally, slowly, rolling out of bed. He brewed some coffee and read yesterday’s paper over breakfast. Honey Bunches of Oats. He finished off his coffee and got up, brushed his teeth, grabbed his lunch box and headed out the door just in time to catch the shuttle-bus to the plant he worked at.
         Todd worked as a Process Operator at the oilsands upgrading plant at Suncrude, an oilsands upgrading plant just a few miles north of the Northern Canadian town of Fort McMurray. He just started working there six months earlier and, so far, things were working out for him.
         When his bus arrived, Todd got onboard, took his seat and drowsily fell back to sleep, slipping once again into his dream about the two hot blondes. He woke up just in time for his bus to arrive at the plant. Half asleep, he got out of his seat and walked down the aisle to disembark, doing his best to conceal his boner with his lunch box. Off the bus and down the walk-way, he drowsily followed the herd of people until finally, he arrived at his lunchroom, right on time, at 7:00 am. He walked in, sat down and joined his co-workers for coffee and idle chatter before the work day began.
         Todd got along well with his new team, but he had to admit - they were a motley group of characters. There was Rod Marcell and Darcy Dwayne, best friends since high school and who had both worked at site together since they graduated in ’87. There was Dick Crenshaw, a grumpy, middle-aged Saskatchewan farm-boy; Dennis Blackmore, an old African-Canadian man who was about ready to retire and kept mostly to himself; Eric Benlar - he was the loud-mouth of the group; and a few others who, along with Darcy Dwayne, didn’t seem to be present this morning.
         Todd took his place at the table just in time to catch Eric’s usual rant about the new remixes by his favorite DJ - this week, Darude - and how hard he worked out the night before.
         “Eric, you couldn’t lift a chicken over a picket fence,” said Dick.
         “Richard, I will fuck your mother,” shouted Eric.
         “Eric,” said Rod, “Do you really gotta bring the mothers into this?”
         “I don’t care,” said Eric, slamming his fist on the table, “I have no fucks to give! No fucks to give!” And Dennis Blackmore harrumphed, not raising his eyes from his newspaper.
         Just then, Darcy Dwayne walked in, half an hour late and smelling of booze. He poured himself a coffee, sat down at the end of the table, one eye twitching, and slowly sipped at his mug.
         “Yo, Dwayne,” yelled Eric, “Got a little too much on the sauce last night?

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