Turdo Deus

Revenge of the turd

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-mind-atlas-peter-liam/1150184226https://books.apple.com/au/audiobook/the-mind-atlas-compelling-short-stories/id6769707768https://open.spotify.com/show/0qaqT21Dpl9bSJ3suLIYtA?s

https://peterliam.hearnow.com/mary-janeMake sure you add Mary Jane to your playlist 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:03

Episode 3. Turtodais. The Great Reconstruction had altered Turdy's biological makeup in ways the sewage community couldn't possibly comprehend. The messy patchwork of heavy-duty synthetic wet wipes, dental floss, and high-tensile human hair hadn't just saved his life, it had caused a profound genetic mutation. As Turdy sat on the edge of the aeration tank, brooding over his past failures, his lumpy back began to itch. He strained, flexing his core, and with a sudden, wet k, a pair of translucent, fibrous wings burst from his shoulder blades. They were woven entirely from tightly spun nylon webbing and hair, buzzing like a dragonfly's wings but smelling distinctly of a flooded basement. He flapped them once, twice, and then he lifted into the air. He wasn't just Turdy anymore. The prophecy had been fulfilled. He was the first of the Terdodeus. The swarm evolved. Turdy realized the synthetic wet wipes held the evolutionary key. He quickly ordered a massive harvest of the flushed wipes blocking the main intake valves. Under his guidance, the entire sewer community began wrapping themselves in the fibrous material, rolling in the nutrient-rich sludge until the mutation took hold. Within days, thousands of solids had sprouted powerful, buzzing wings. The dark tunnels of Treatment Plant 2 echoed with the deafening, horrific drone of a million airborne floaters. Standing atop the primary valve, Turdy addressed his glorious, winged armada. For generations, they flushed us. Turdy roared, his wings blurring with excitement. They feared our scent, they hid us in the dark. But today, the sky belongs to the Turtodais. To the city. Direct hits to the faces. With a collective buzz that shook the concrete foundations of the plant, the swarm took flight, pouring out of the ventilation shafts and blotting out the afternoon sun like a brown, ominous storm cloud. The airborne assault. The metropolis was completely unprepared for the great splat of 2026. The swarm descended upon the downtown financial district during rush hour. It was absolute chaos. Turdy led the vanguard, executing a perfect, high-velocity dive bomb directly onto the face of a corporate executive holding a latte. Splat. Oh god, it's in my eyes, the executive screamed, dropping his briefcase. Everywhere you looked, the Turtodais were executing their long-awaited vengeance. They flew into open car windows, smacked into the faces of unsuspecting tourists, and targeted people taking selfies in the park. The city's economy ground to an immediate halt as citizens ran for cover, umbrellas raised in sheer terror, while the air filled with an ungodly, rancid odor. The police tried to SWAT them, but they were too fast, too aerodynamic, and frankly, no one wanted to touch them. The city was on the brink of total surrender. The fire brigade's last stand. Just when all hope seemed lost, the sirens wailed. The local fire brigade arrived on the scene, deploying a fleet of heavy-duty pumper trucks. The fire chief, wearing a hazmat mask, assessed the buzzing cloud of vengeance. They're made of organic waste and synthetic fibers. Normal water won't stop them. They'll just absorb it and get heavier. Bring out the chemical foam. The firefighters unlocked the high-pressure cannons, angling them directly at the swirling vortex of the Turtodeus. Fire! Massive, blinding torrents of thick, industrial strength antibacterial sanitizing foam erupted from the hoses. The foam blanketed the sky, instantly neutralizing the organic bonds holding the swarm's wings together. Turdy saw the white wall of chemical doom coming, but it was too fast. The foam coated his wings, turning the nylon fibers brittle and stripping his aerodynamic lift. Retreat. Turdy croaked, but it was too late. The entire airborne armada began raining down from the sky, stripped of their power, completely sanitized, and smelling strangely like lavender and pine. Back to the source. The torrential blast of the fire hoses washed the defeated, freshly sanitized Turtodaeus directly into the city's storm drains. Whoosh! Down through the dark, rushing subterranean rivers they slid. Stripped of their wings, their grand rebellion washed away in a flood of soapy residue. An hour later, Turdy splashed face first back into the familiar, murky waters of sedimentation tank 4. He looked around. His wings were completely gone, dissolved by the antibacterial onslaught. He was back in the sludge, right where he started, surrounded by his weeping, wingless followers. Turdy wiped a layer of lavender foam from his brow, looked up at the sewer grate, and sighed. Well, he muttered to a nearby corn colonel. The sky was nice while it lasted. Tomorrow, we explore underground drilling.