LM Shyba

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Ducks Redux

Fueling Flames in Oil Land

by CD Evans & LM Shyba
by (artist) Rich Theroux

edition:eBook

also available: Paperback

tagged : romantic comedy

More Info

Excerpt

Keep your cool, keep cool, stay cool, don’t die here Maeve snarls to herself as she weaves her battered pickup through a convoy of semis on Deerbound Trail. She drove all night from work camp at Tailings Pond and the morning sun bites at her eyes as tries to focus on the road through the bugs. She’s at the end her dash for the Real Rush Energy head office in downtown Oil Land. Cool, stay cool. Words tumble in her head. Dead flippin’ ducks. I get blamed. Right!? I go down for this? JB’s gonna be an angry pitbull with big jaws snapping. Snap me like a twig. Gravel rakes her windshield hard from the bare wheel well of a jacked up Tundra. Or will my crisis training kick in and help me out? She hopes the latter but fears the first. Dead ducks lying dead in Tailings Pond, what a disaster. Her truck’s undercarriage makes a terrible rattle, must have hit a rabbit or something on the way down. Over the roar of the traffic, and the tumble of big jaw, snapping like a twig snapping, in her head, Maeve steadies herself with a breath. She punches at her jerry-rigged onboard Bluetooth and yells out, “Dial Real Rush. Harold Jones.” Harry picks up her call right away. “Maeve, ah—?” He has no time to answer back when Maeve shouts, “No way those alarm horns could have scared that flock off, Harry forget it. Couldn’t get ’em set up fast enough anyway. Duck corpses everywhere.” She swerves into the diamond lane to pass a tourist trailer of obscene length.“Yeah, flocks and insane flocks of ’em … banked and landed right on top of our Pond 13, what a cesspool … what were we supposed to do? Flap our arms around at ’em and pray? God knows we tried. What a disaster.” A merge moves her out onto the final Memorial Trail to town. “What?? You knows about it already. How did you find out? ... What station? ... You tell Mailcoat yet? … Give me five minutes, I’ll be right there.” Maeve tears off her headset and slaps down the sun visor, grabbing at the same time for her aviator glasses and poking out one of the lenses in the process. She drives head on into the flaming sun toward downtown Oil Land, squinting with one eye. She has a pretty good idea that Harry will give JB the heads up about the dead ducks. Not a great way to start a meeting. Her breath sharpens into a rasp and she catches herself groaning in gasps and moans. Breathe, steady yourself. She punches at her playlist, takes a big breathe and sings along to a song about calming down and not being so loud. Fat chance she can follow that advice. It took three months with Read Rush to get that Lucas was right all along. — that she’s selling out. She’d told him, “I’ll do a great job at Tailings Pond, then you’ll see. I’ll dazzle JB Mailcoat and his Real Rush cronies with renewable energy experiments we’ve been testing, you’ll see.” Lucas said without a trace of empathy, “You’re kidding, right? He’ll eat you alive.” When she accepted the job, Maeve thought she’d be working in the solar testing lab but instead, JB assigned her to chase wildlife away from Tailings Pond. The dazzling presentation she’d planned was likely today to turn into don’t fire me, I have to pay my student loans. Nothing I could do to keep those ducks off the toxic water. Don’t you believe me? As she heads toward the inevitable crunch with JB Mailcoat and his snapping jaws at Real Rush’s head office, she drives and chants, keep your cool, Maeve. Pull yourself together. Do not be afraid.

At the same time, JB Mailcoat, President and CEO of Real Rush Energy, cracks his morning cola and kicks his scuffed cowboy boots up on the shiny walnut desk. He surveys the corporate landscape of Oil Land and the shining mountains that stretch beyond the walls of his glass palace on the 38th floor of the Real Rush Building. As he sucks an errant morsel of breakfast steak from between his teeth, he reflects on how much easier life would be if there was a big ocean out there, dotted with oil tankers instead of peaky mountains and stacks of unused pipeline. JB pries his thousand-mile stare off the sweeping horizon and swings his long legs up and away from the top of the desk and onto the floor with a thud. A flurry of dog whines and scratches from a nest under his hobby table in the corner of the room prompts him to hurl a big rawhide bone in the direction of his black lab Lucky, who jumps out at it from across the Persian rug with a rip and a salivating snort. JB reaches out to scratch Lucky behind the ear, drawling out “Who needs a harbor, Daddy needs a harbor,” but a rap at the door provokes barking and lunging that knocks JB off balance, upsetting both his train of thought about needing harbors and the pile of coins he had stacked up on the corner of his desk. A muffled voice from behind the big oak door says, “Excuse me, Mr. Mailcoat … twenty-five hundred dead ducks ... Tailings Pond—” JB, momentarily distanced from his aura of command, slides around on a sea of collapsed coinage as he grabs Lucky’s collar in one swift movement. Harold Jones opens the door a crack, saying, “we may be facing a disaster.” “Whaddya mean, a disaster?” “That’s what she said, JB. I’m only repeating what Dr. Wong—” “Listen, Harry!” JB strides across the room, points a square finger and yells out. “Chernobyl was a disaster. Katrina was a disaster. Fifty rigs out about five hundred days hittin’ fifty dry holes, that’s gettin’ up there. Who is this Dr. Wong anyway, calling this a disaster. This ain’t nothin.’ Dead ducks ain’t even on the radar.” As he punches at the television remote, Harold answers, “Yeah, I’m with you, JB.” The channels flip from the twangy country music channel to JB’s default favourites: the Fishing Network, ESPN, and Fox News. He looks up to see JB scowling. “You’re pushing on an open door, JB, on a scale of one to ten, dead ducks is a minus one hundred and ninety-three.” Harry, besides being a pretty good slide guitarist and a native Oil Lander, is a world class suckhole. “Okay,” he sighs, “Here’s the coverage.” The screen springs to life with images of dead and dying ducks and a news ticker that proclaims AntiTox’s discovery of a catastrophe of dead and dying ducks. JB, true to his hard-stubble cow ranching and oil patch roots of Okadoka, swings into crisis mode. “So what are you people doin’ about these ducks. Tell me. Right Now!”

Maeve pulls her muddy truck up in front of Real Rush, flips on the hazards lights, jumps out, flashes her lanyard dongle at security, and catches the elevator up to the 38th Floor. Struggling to control her hammering heart, she closes her eyes and a scene from the stinking mire of muck comes flooding in. In her head, she has the courage to remember— oil-soaked duck, bewildered, trying to scream, flapping crippled wings. Ding. 14th Floor. Grabbing the desperate thing, slipping and sliding in the filth, scooping it up. The poor creature flapping weakly but enough to spray ooze all over me. Ding. 25th Floor. Oh God, the ooze is still all over me! I scrub it off with detergent and it waddles away but there are so many others. Ding. 31th Floor. Lucas — pirouetting out by the busted air canon, holding his camera up over his head, connecting with the Veritable Press satellite. Shouting out Lucas, Don’t rat me out. Please!!’ Shouting Sorry Lucas. I’ve whored myself out to Real Rush Energy and now I’m in deep. Don’t rat me out! Did her hear me? Ding. 38th Floor. Maeve slides past the inner sanctum secretarial sentries, gorgeous in their stiletto heels and butterfly false eyelashes, spots the bronze door plaque reading “JB Mailcoat CEO” and barges straight through. She is covered in grease, her hair pulled back with a motorcycle bandana and coveralls rolled down to her waist, exposing a tar and feather-smeared Montexa Folk Festival t-shirt. Lucky, the dog, thunderstruck by her appearance and dominated by her “Ho, Canine, back off,” retreats to gnaw on his rawhide. Hey this is no pitpull just a black lab. She thinks. Not kind but not deadly either. JB spins away from the television, reeling with the twin realization that shareholders’ investments in oil lands are in jeopardy and that there is a strange, disheveled FarEastern woman in the office. He yells out, “Harry, goddammit, who the hell is this?” Harold, tripping over his words in his haste to defuse the situation blurts out, “JB, this is Dr. Maeve Wong, our new environmental scientist. We hired her away from post-graduate field work at the copper smelter disaster down in Montexa. She can give you some of the … some of the—” “Yeah. Spit it out Harry, Some of th’ what?” snaps JB. Maeve, not wanting to further embarrass anyone, interrupts with, “Good morning, Mr. Mailcoat, sir.” She removes her oily glove and extends her hand but JB just glares at her. Maeve recoils her hand, using the motion as a chance to reach into her coverall pocket for her phone. The screen brightens up with sad pictures of dying ducks. She holds the phone up to JB face saying, “Sir, birds died. Lots of birds. This isn’t the first time either.” With a click and a scroll she finds the stats she is looking for. “Records show that between four hundred and fifty-eight and five thousand and twenty-nine birds died last year after landing on our ponds.” JB is, on the one hand, appalled at one so unfeminine — like a medieval princess, no makeup, holy shit — and, on the other, impressed that she had come them from the copper mine smelter disaster zone. “Listen, lady I heard it all before. Duck hunters shotgun thousands a’ ducks outta Oil Land skies every year—.” Maeve wants to wind up and give KB a stiff kick in the butt with her steel-toed boot, but instead chants to herself stay cool, survive this life, don’t die here. JB is still yelling, “...a hellava lotta feathers hit the deck all kind of ways. A couple a’ thousand gettin’ a messy death? Not a big deal.” While he is yelling, she bites her tongue, leans over to pick some coins up off the floor and stacks them back up onto the coffee table in what she hopes is perceived as a demonstration of cooperation. But JB isn’t finished. Raising his voice to the feared heights of admonishing pitbull he continues. “I heard wind turbines nail over ten thousand birds a month. And what do think them AntiTox types serve at their annual piss-ups? Roast dead duck with that there l’orange, I’ll bet. Dead duck on the rocks with a twist a’ lemon. Duck a la King. Look lady, we’re not talkin’ about dead babies here!” “The problem is, JB…” Harold interrupts. “The problem is that with Dr. Wong’s guidance we’ve made dramatic improvements to our bird-deterrent system—” JB spins around and yells, “So why the hell don’t they work?” He kicks the waste basket across the room with such velocity that the office fills with an earsplitting clang. Maeve looks over at Harry and sucks in her cheeks, hoping he interprets her exasperation. “The problem is, JB, this new duck incident has made headlines again around the world only this time it’s Real Rush and not your competition that’s between the crosshairs. Photos and videos of oil-drenched migrating fowl at Tailings Pond are going viral. It’s a nightmare.” Maeve perceives that Harold is making the problem worse rather than better. She says, “Mr. Mailcoat, sir, let me explain. Birds land on the pond water. They think its a lake but there’s oil on the surface.” “Lady, whose side are you on?!” Sensing an imminent blowout of Okadokan proportions, Harold thinks of grabbing JB another cola but instead slides up to the office bar and pours him a shot glass of Cuervo Gold. The shot of tequila brings JB back to memories of Panhandle cantinas and dirt tracks to remote well sites. His eyes reflect a fleeting moment of calm. Harry takes advantage of this to explain, “You may recall that at the Shareholders’ Annual Meeting, questions were raised about the ponds. That was when the committee of concerned shareholders suggested Real Rush retain the services of full-time ecologists and environmentalists.” JB hurls the empty shot glass at the trash basket, only to have it bounce off the side, hitting Maeve’ carefully constructed tower of coins and peppering Lucky with a ricochet of rebounds. The dog whimpers and slinks over to Maeve who pats him and whispers, “I’ll bet you don’t like gunshots either, hey Lucky.” JB glances at Lucky cuddling up to Maeve but spins around toward Harry and blows hard, shouting, “What the devil are you talking about? I don’t recall any such shareholders’ meeting.” “I think, in fairness, JB, you left the annual meeting early that day to take Governor Singh and her partner out to the Land Westohere fishing lodge and—” “Damn rights. If I’d bin there with the shareholders instead of entertainin’ Singh, we wouldn’t be employin’ no granola gropers in this man’s company.” Maeve stands her ground. “We can’t sweep this under the table, sir. Our press releases report that we are committed to protecting wildlife, that we are glad to discuss bird monitoring and reporting with responsible agencies, and we continue to seek better ways to protect wildlife and our feathered friends —” “Jeeze, Kid, gimme a break. We’re in the oil business, not the Bambi and Daffy Duck and Squirrel Nutkin business.” At this point, Maeve’s phone beeps but JB continues, oblivious to the interruption. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I like pets, hey, my kids down home had some of them birds, parrots ’er somethin’ when they were little. An’ a cat.” Maeve checks her phone, nodding her head as if she tolerates or, God forbid, even agrees with JB’s opinions about Bambi and Daffy. She mumbles, only half hoping JB hears her, Twenty-five years old, I’m not a kid! then reads the screen aloud. “Sir, more news since the ponds disaster—” JB’s wincing and snorting huffs over the word ‘disaster’ gives her a chance to re-read the text message. “Sir, our people in the field have announced the premature deaths of some additional twenty-five hundred ducks at our Tailings Pond. Another huge flock that got past the air cannons had to be euthanized.” “Euthanized? Like, offed? Twenny-five hundred? Is someone countin’ these birds, one by one? Maybe it’s one hundred and thirty, maybe it’s three thousand. Hello, I found another one: this is an ex-duck! Duck? Ex-duck! Like I said. This ain’t news. Harry scours the breaking news ticker for information about the additional carnage but so far it hasn’t hit the media. “Sir, please remember we have announced our fullest cooperation with the regulatory authorities, and are working to minimize waterfowl losses, exercising due diligence about cleaning up the Pond.” After another quick look at the screen the anxious EA adds, “Our written press release attributes this statement to you, JB.” “Ain’t I the responsible citizen!” Harry looks at him and makes a last-ditch attempt to smooth things out with some fake news, knowing his job might be on the line. “Sir, there might have been what we characterize as ‘unusual bird activity’ due to freezing rain in the area, which makes it difficult for the birds to fly and forces them down. They were easily approached, indicating that they were drunk on berries or fatigued.” Maeve hides her face in her hands as JB explodes. “Fatigued, fat-tigued? All this energy and due diligence and runnin’ round in circles, and you’ve figured them birds just got rained on, tuckered out and fell outta the sky! This is what I’m payin’ you for? And what about them regulators, Harry. I thought you got ’em pieced off.” “Trouble is, JB, the enviros are now permitted routine ride-alongs with the inspectors by the government.” “They what? Enviros spying at Tailings Pond?” Harry quails. “A not-so-bright idea of Governor Singh.” “That phoney balony! She wouldn’t know her ass from a duck’s ass.” Maeve walks over to Harry, gives him a weary smile and takes over the television remote, cranking the volume. “Speaking of whom, well, Mr. Mailcoat, she’s live on location.” Governor Singh fills the screen from onsite at the Pond. The camera pulls back to reveal her holding and stroking a pathetic oil-covered duck. “I cannot express how disappointed and frustrated I am that this regrettable incident occurred,” she intones, reading with poppy eyes from the teleprompt, “Oil Landers deserve answers to why this bird carnage happened again, and we will do everything we can to get these answers quickly.” JB snorts. “Who voted for this idiot? Who donated to her?” Governor Singh continues: “State officials ensure that Real Rush is preventing further flocks of birds from landing. Air cannons are said to be operating, but their deployment has been sporadic and dilatory—” “Sporadic… and what? Harry, turn that thing off.” “Mr. Mailcoat,” interrupts Maeve, “it is a feather in our cap that we are addressing these concerns.” She relays a half-truth that gives her moral compass a spin. “Indeed, we have deployed extra air cannons, flare guns and air horns to try to scare the birds away, but with no luck so far, I’m afraid. The entire region is a busy migrating route for waterfowl.” “You’re afraid? I ain’t afraid. I want this problem and this rotten publicity squashed, right now. As for the freezin’ rain and drunk birds—” “JB,” says Harry, “enviros are calling Tailings Pond a duck killing ground, it’s getting a lot of media play, and it’s catching on everywhere. The buzz is that all Real Rush and the other operators get is a slap on the wrist. That they do anything they want. You know who is getting a lot of mileage out of this, eh? AntiTox.” Maeve, remembering the sighting of her boyfriend Lucas Van Dam at Tailings Pond with his camera and satellite phone upload gadget, jumps at the chance to change the subject but just makes things worse, “…and AntiTox says the tar pond—” “The what?” “Sorry, Sir, I meant Tailings Pond, of course.” “You been brainwashed like them AntiTox types, lady?” She flinches at his insult. “This is an urgent matter. Research postulates that the number of bird deaths in Oil Land is between seven and seventy-seven times higher than our own energy industry estimates.” “Pustulates? Ya’ mean like pimples?” JB tilts back his head and snickers at his pun, waking up his sleeping dog who leaps up and sniffs around for a place to relieve himself. Maeve, speaking out over Lucky’s pathetic whining, says, “Sir, our industry reported an average sixty-five birds die each year. However, according to ecological data, over ten thousands expire each year from landing on ponds rife with toxic heavy metals and acids—” “Think I haven’t heard all this before? JB yells with a laugh, “Ducks de-ducks duck. Hey! Ducks. Redux. Would make a great horror movie with new scenes — like Apocalyse Now. The horror, dead ducks!” He scoffs and walks over to the door, leading Lucky by the scruff of the neck, booting him out into the hall so his toilet needs become someone else’s problem. Then he shuffles over to the bar to pour another tequila. For some strange reason, he thinks of offering one to Maeve but is stopped by what he considers to be the dumbest idea he’s ever heard. “Mr. Mailcoat, we must emphasize that we are committed to protecting wildlife. I suggest that Real Rush support the establishment of a bigger environmental research team. We’ll visit the field in a scientifically defensible manner—.” “Scientifically defensible? Harry, what the hell?” “Perhaps, JB, we might excuse Dr. Wong at this time, with our thanks, and we can consult further after she has had a chance to explore our corporate options in consultation with her colleagues on staff.” He nods at Maeve to beat a hasty retreat. As she starts to leave, JB shouts out after her, “You’re not wigglin’ out of responsibility for this. Park your beater, clean up in my gym and I want you back here in an hour! My sentry out at the front desk will give you the keycodes.” As Maeve opens the door to leave the room, Lucky makes his ballistic re-entry. Amidst the canine bluster, she is shocked that JB catches her eye and steadily holds her gaze.

Maeve is glad to be getting out of JB’s office, but the warm glow that has flushed her face catches her totally by surprise. What was JB’s look all about? I hate guys like Mailcoat with their right-wing values and beer bellies so what do I see in that look? Is he looking at me like a lover? That would be so MeToo weird. Is he thinking he’s like my dad? Is he just curious, never met a FarEaster? Is there a booger in of my nose? She discretely checks her nose, no booger. A blonde executive assistant with fake eyelashes like butterflies looks up from her phone and passes along JB’s pass codes saying, “Gym’s down the hall and if you want some clean clothes, there’s some in a basket marked ‘Tricia’ above the water cooler.” Maeve computes what she’s heard but her main thoughts spring back to her truck’s blinking hazard lights out front of the Real Rush Building and how her battery is due to die any minute. “Parking garage?” she asks Tricia. “Easy,” was the answer. “Just key in L-U-C-K-Y.” She joins JB’s other sentries as they field phone calls pouring in as dead ducks hit tlevision and social media all over Oil Land and beyond. Maeve sheds greasy mud clumps as she races across the lobby and out the front doors to save her truck’s battery from certain death by hazard light. The old Pathfinder grinds a bit to get started, and the exhaust makes a new kind of racket she hasn’t heard before. She mumbles Better get someone to look at that muffler. Maeve winds a way down to executive parking, enters the L-U-C-K-Y code and pulls up beside the fleet of Real Rush 4 x 4 Suburbans and lanky Mercedes. She kicks her muddy steel-toes boots into the passenger wheel well and for the second time in less than an hour, catches the elevator up to the 38th Floor, this time in her sock feet. As she closes her eyes, the scene from JB Mailcoat’s office comes flooding in. Why did he look at me like that? Does he like me like a daughter? Or a new flame? He’s old enough to be my dad. Ding. 14th Floor. I didn’t even have a chance to talk to him about renewables instead of always oil, oil, oil. Will I ever? Ding. 25th Floor. Will he ever call me Maeve or should I just be The Kid to him forever. Ding. 31th Floor. Is Lucas still in at Tailings Pond with AntiTox? Will he ever even speak to me again after what I have done — Ding.

close this panel

Ducks Redux

Fueling Flames in Oil Land

by LM Shyba & CD Evans
illustrated by Rich Theroux

edition:Paperback

also available: eBook

tagged : romantic comedy, satire

More Info

Excerpt

From Chapter Two. FREEDOM NORTH PIPELINE. JB mailcoat takes a second to compose himself after the magnetic eye lock he experienced with Maeve Wong. What a curious person, he thinks. Shaking himself back into his public persona he shouts, “Harry, who hired that drab?” “It’s a different world, JB,” explains Harry as he runs around the office scooping up Maeve’s mud chunks with a wadded up Oil Land Star newspaper. “We have to keep up with the times, and times are changing.” He finds the trash basket that JB has kicked across the room and throws in the muddy newspaper. “Besides, you’ll see, she cleans up pretty good.” “How’d this story about the ducks get out, anyway? I mean, ain’t we got folks to catch these things, like, they find some dead ducks, they get rid of ’em. That’s what we pay people for, good money.” “The problem is, JB—” “Stop sayin’ the problem is, Harry. Try saying’ the solution is for a change. Is there one guy who keeps blabbing to the press, or what’s going on?” JB heads to his bar for a another refreshment, strong black coffee this time. In a great and unusual show of camaraderie, he pours one for Harry too and points over at his hobby corner. They plop into the plush swivel desk chairs and as JB starts whittling on a square block of hardwood, Harry unravels the backstory. “It’s the enviro ride-along groups, JB. Sometime back the government told all the oil mine companies they had to allow reasonable access by environmental groups like AntiTox to monitor wildlife mortality at our facilities. They’re allowed to walk the perimeters of Tailings Pond to observe how many birds are landing there and calculate the percentage that die—” “They do what? That’s private property, Harry!” “…then they multiply those numbers by the number of ponds we have.” Harry purses his lips and takes a small sip of the strong coffee. “It is a problem, JB, a big problem — area of all our ponds combined is—” “Yeah, I know, twice the size of all tarnation.” JB scowls and leans forward to choose a finer carving tool. Harry continues. “I guess the problem, I mean solution is, we’re going to have to get Dr. Wong some more people and a better system. Our bird deterrent team is understaffed. They don’t have enough scarecrows, cannons, or even radar devices. True, one of the enviro ride-alongs must have blabbed to AntiTox. But the fact is, Dr. Wong didn’t have the people to set up a deterrent system soon enough and quick enough.” “You mean they were sittin’ around on their fat arses drinkin’ coffee and playin’ cards. Fire em all.” “JB, I mean to say, look, this is a big public humiliation for us and for the other oil mine operators too. Dead ducks have made headlines around the world.Lucas Vandam, one of the AntiTox types, says that Tailings Pond violates the law protecting migratory birds, and he’s arguing that our industry is derelict. Here, let me get you the story.” As Harry scrolls through his phone for the story, JB sits back in his chair, silent, thinking, Lucas Vandam. That’s probably the guy blabbing to the press about the ducks. He’d better not sink his teeth into bad mouthing our Freedom North Pipeline. He’s dangerous. He reaches down under his hobby table, scratches Lucky behind the ears and says quietly, “How’re we supposed to get Freedom North Pipeline out to Fort Tuk harbor if we get hammered this hard over a goddamn flock of ducks?” Harry raises his head from his phone saying, “The story has ramped up. The government is laying charges against Real Rush.” “One charge is ‘failing to prevent hazardous substances from coming into contact with wildlife—’” “So, get the lawyers to plead that the ducks ran at them substances with their beaks, or somethin’.” “Another is a Convention Act about depositing harmful substances in waters frequented by migratory birds.” “Birds have conventions? Tell ’em next year to do us a favor and go to Vegas.” He scoffs, stops his whittling, and says, “Harry, you value your job?” Harry nods. “Well you get onto this thing, and you make it go away. You get me, Harry? I’m tired of this. Make it go away. Now.” He points a big square finger at the door. He picks up the duck-hunting decoy he has been frantically whittling. “This is the only kind of dead duck deserves our attention from here on in, get it?” Harry looks around for a place to put his half-empty coffee cup and settles it in JB’s whittling sawdust, adding to JB’s towers of coinage and Lucky’s rawhides. His chair gives an embarrassing squeaky fart as he rises. He makes his way over to the big oak door and hears JB’s instruction “Call The Big Law Firm, ask for Kinderman, get the board room ready for the damage control meeting and keep it on the QT.” JB swivels around in his chair, focusing his scowling attention on the early-day market report on television. He mumbles to himself, “Dow … TSX … price of oil, the price of gold .… Stock’s down. Gold’s up, big.” Then, to Lucky, his confidant and companion he adds, “Well, boy, what we got here is the price of everythin’ and the value of nothin’.” Then, the breaking news ticker on the screen shows the carnage has been officially upped to five thousand dead ducks. A disaster. Maeve, scrubbed and perfumed from JB’s private gym slips into to the damage control meeting in Real Rush’s opulent boardroom. She resisted raiding Tricia’s fashion basket for now and is wearing locker room flip flops and a sarong styled from a sauna robe. She’d thrown her greasy overalls in the gym laundry but had not forgotten to reach into the bib pocket to take out the smoky quartz necklace that Lucas had given her as an “I love you” gift. Projected onto a giant presentation screen on the wall is the Real Rush’s hired gun attorney from The Big Law Firm, Celeste Kinderman. Maeve, watching the screen, sees red-tipped fingers reach up over Kinderman’s shoulder into her ample bosum, wiring up a microphone for the Skype call. Harry Jones, looking a bit like Bradley Cooper only blonder and growing a moustache, is testing fancy camera and lighting levels in the room. Maeve reckons she is has been called to attend the meeting for possible on-the-ground Tailings Pond analysis. Tricia, JB’s lead butterfly sentry, is there to take notes. JB drawls, “At a thousand bucks an hour we’ll be hearin’ her advice,” he shakes his head and bellows out, “on TV?” “It was short notice,” says Harry. Maeve checks out the videoconference screen and is pretty sure she sees the Real Rush building in the background. Just as she notices this, the spidery, red-tipped fingers reach out and snap shut the blinds. Audio from the remote site kicks in, enabling the full resonance of Celeste Kinderman’s plum tones to pour forth. “Mr. President Mailcoat and colleagues, an international coalition of environmental groups has launched a successful public relations offensive against what they characterize as our wildlife killing fields.” Grinding his teeth, JB spits and shouts, “Show me any industry that don’t kill a few animals for the good of humanity. Where’ve these idiots been?” Kinderman, feigning patience, explains, “In the talk show studios of the world, for one, Mr. Mailcoat. The environmental groups are expert media manipulators. AntiTox is only one of the more than a dozen groups lobbying against us.” Maeve surveys the level of comprehension of the people in the room: JB, exuding presidential arrogance, is all ears; Harry with his headphones listens more for audio dropouts than discussion details; the sentry butterfly blinks and scribbles. She herself is vulnerable to suggestion and gives the appearance of a hula dancer in her gym sarong with her wet hair pinned back with a big bulldog clip. Celeste Kinderman who no doubt runs the show from on screen, suddenly has a silk stocking tickling her nose. Celeste casually blows and brushes off the stocking and begins meandering through her advice slowly, knowing that the longer she takes, the bigger the bill. “Wildlife migration is impossible to reroute and will be all the more difficult with the Freedom North Pipeline.” “Don’t forget, Kinderman,” drawls JB Mailcoat, “I hear the environuts are being financed by them other high-producin’ countries, Merka being one of ’em now with their shales. They’re the ones who wanna shut down oil mine production. We’re sittin’ on the second largest oil reserves on the planet, and we don’t give ’em sweet dreams.” “Mr. Mailcoat,” says Celeste, “rumors flying around about foreign money going to enviro groups is greatly exaggerated. Most of the rank and file of the enviro groups are volunteers with ideologies of The Greater Good.” “I get yer point Kinderman. Like my daddy used to say, Don’t mess with something that ain’t really bothering you. Let’s stick with our knittin’ and get Lena Currey’s government off our backs about the goddamn ducks. “ Harry, shouting because he still has his headphones on says, “Now that Governor Currey and her bunch have turned off the taps to Land Westohere we gotta ram through Freedom Pipeline up north to Fort Tuk harbor before Merka doesn’t need our oil anymore.” “There ya go. Harry nutshelled it. We’re takin’ Freedom North to Tuk! Up past Great Bearberry Lake, through the tundra. Listen up, we got the parties, we got the partners, includin’ Indigenous, some of ’em at least, we got the financing, we got the volume guarantees, and it’s all systems go—” “Do you have another customer lined up for the oil?” asks Celeste. Balling up both fists, JB says,“Highest bidders. FarEasters I guess. The harbor ain’t goin’ to move here so we gotta move product to the harbor. Lucky for us, global warmin’ has opened up the shipping routes in the Arctic. Dr. Wong here will help us with the FarEasters.” He asks her, “Speak the lingo, right?” Before Maeve can give her answer, which happens to be “no,” Celeste sniffs, “FarEast is experiencing unprecedented economic slowdown so if you want to make a profit, you’ll still have to count on FarEast freighters off-loading to Merkan vessels anyway. Merka’s got a serious addiction, and they can’t handle supply on their own for now, but hard reality is that pretty soon they won’t need us anymore.” She gauges response. “Can you handle that tough fact?” Maeve, hating to hear stunned silence in the room says, “Mr. Mailcoat, we may not have oil customers much longer, but we have a credible story to tell the world, about our responsible duck deterrents in the Tailings Pond—” He lowers his voice in a kindly way to Maeve, saying, “Kid, try to understand. We’re talkin’ resource development here. Listen and learn.” JB pumps up the volume and the drawl and shouts out to all, “I said it before and I’ll say it again. We work for the shareholders, we have to meet our production quotas. We do not work for the little folks or the greater good.” Quietly he adds, for Maeve’s benefit, “And definitely not for the ducks.” Harry, who has been studying JB’s style of rhetoric, political values, and mannerisms for years, sees his opening. “The problem, um, I mean the solution is,” he stammers, then stands and jingles coinage in his pocket for courage, raising his voice to Mailcoatian decibel levels, “um, the problem is this government has been spending more time on designer renewables than getting Oil Land policies in line.” He glances at JB, sees he is listening and thumps his fist. “We’re talking about the future of billions of dollars of Real Rush investment, but Oil Land state government is going all ... well ... green.” He looks around and his face goes red. JB nods and grunts in agreement, a gesture that gives Harry a big thrill. JB drives home the point, “Those junior politicians don’t know their arse from their elbow. We elected them suckers to manage our precious oil and gas resource, and they’re drivin’ black cows in the dark.” JB pauses to allow Harry the pleasure of forcing a laugh and an explanation. “Don’t know what they’re doin, right JB? Why not throw the bums out.” “Ain’t that what I bin sayin’! Throw the bums out, and fast! We need a government at our beck and call.” Kinderman, Did you hear me?” Throw out the government? thinks Maeve. This is atrocious, but I’d better shut up. At that moment, Kinderman, still paying cursory attention, holds up her hands with gesture that looks like a church steeple. “There may be some hair on that idea of throwing out the government, Mr. Mailcoat.” She pauses. “Because of the environmental protection lawsuits we’re facing—” “That’s not all, JB.” Harry checks his phone. “We just got word from Governor Currey’s office that special interest groups have insisted on more consultation on the Freedom North Pipeline before shovels go in the ground.” JB pounds his fist on the table and stands up in a display of urgency. “Well, that’s the last straw. Politicians ain’t doing nothin’ to get the Freedom built. Time to throw ’em out. We’re just not gonna take this anymore, we need to do whatever we want! In Oil Land, we got separatists with a hundred million bucks each. You’re sittin’ with one of ’em.” He takes time to stare down every set of eyes. Nobody says a thing. He points at Maeve, “Kid, get Fred Fiddler on the line. Time for him to walk his separatist talk!” Maeve likes JB’s attention, doesn’t even mind if he calls her Kid but she doesn’t have a clue who Fred Fiddler is. She says, “Shouldn’t Harry call this guy?” “Earn yer keep, Kid. Harry here has a new position from now on, PR Diversion and Special Events.” Harry beams again from JB’s approval. “Go on, get outta here Harry. Tell sentries to give you keys to an office and give Kid Wong here your Rolodex or whatever you use to keep track of numbers. Wong, tell Fiddler I need to meet him at the Blue Ribbon Club today. Lunch. And you’re comin’ too but ditch that aloha look.” Celeste asks, “You’re sure you want to get into bed with that megalomaniac Fiddler? What the—?” A bang-bang sound rings out in the background of her Skype call and voices yelling what sounds like, “Police, open up.” A woman’s sultry voice speaks out, “This is a private room.” Abruptly, Kinderman’s image on screen fades to black. JB, ignoring the kerfuffle on screen says with a mission-from-God determination in his voice, “Wong, get Fiddler on the line. Right fucking now! “He’s the only megalo-whatever we got.” Fred Fiddler, attorney-at-law, leader of the criminal bar, preens as he stands before the full-length mirror in the courthouse locker room. He admires himself in his swallow-tailed court coat and barrister’s bib. He is as vain as a man who is the center of his own universe can be. Fred is Hollywood handsome and, as his young law partner Walt Roloff would say, Hollywood vain. It is not that Fred is a prince of his profession, he just happens to lucky enough to have smart people like Walt Roloff around him. He yearns to be worshipped. Fred the Great! This morning, Fred is to address a jury in a routine murder. Not a big deal. Two low-lifes got into consensual fisticuffs; one of their number did not get up. The surviving lout’s dad has some bucks and retains Fred Fiddler, famous criminal lawyer. Currently lost in self-love at the mirror, he returns to reality at the urgent vibration of his personal cellphone, which is strapped to his hip like a Buntline special. “Yes. Fiddler here, attorney at law.” “Mr. Fiddler, my name is Dr. Maeve Wong—” “Call the switchboard receptionist. I’m in trial.” “Mr. Fiddler, I am calling you on behalf of JB Mailcoat of Real Rush Energy Inc.” Fred does a double take. “Did you say ‘JB Mailcoat’?” “Yes, Mr. Fiddler.” “The JB Mailcoat?” Fred Fiddler’s naiveté sometimes shows through his veneer of sophistication. “The one and only, Mr. Fiddler.” Mr. Mailcoat knows of your bulldog reputation and is a great admirer of yours.” “Well, that’s very—” Fred, the professional wordsmith, can’t think of an appropriate word. He thinks, JB Mailcoat! “Mr. Fiddler, Mr. Mailcoat requests that you to join us for lunch today at The Blue Ribbon Club. He wishes to consult with you on a matter of grave importance and urgency.” “Yes, of course. Well, say, uh… let’s see, I’ll have a jury out until later today, so lunch at Blue Ribbon is fine.” “Thank you, Mr. Fiddler. I’ll let Mr. Mailcoat know it’s a go.” “A go. That’s what it will be then, a go, Miss—” “Wong. Dr. Maeve Wong. I believe I will be joining you. Good bye, Mr. Fiddler.” Fred Fiddler takes the noisy, dark courthouse fire escape stairs two at a time, all the way to the fourth floor and not missing a beat. He finds his criminal law associate Walt Roloff, on the fourth floor landing, listening to music on his phone and reading his trial brief. Fiddler explodes, “Take off those headphones.” When Walt does his bidding he continues, “This is the big one, Roloff! This is the big one!” “What’s that again, Fred?” A tune can be heard thinly blaring as Walt hangs the earbuds around his neck. I’m a rebel just for kicks, now ... Fiddler explodes again, this time gesticulating as if he is describing a big fish. “The big one, Roloff! This is the big one!” Walt eyes his partner Fred, spits a plum pit into his bandana, turns his music off, and wipes plum juice off his chin. “No need for emotion so early in the day,” he says in his cold, smooth voice. “Slow down, Fred.” “Walt, I just got the call. The call!” Walt stuffs the bandana into his pocket. “The call of the wild? Yes, I think I got that part, Fred. What’s the next part?” “I’m having lunch today at the Blue Ribbon with JB Mailcoat, President and CEO of Real Rush Energy.” “That tedious fraud.” Fred says, “Park your opinions, Walt. We’re talking big money here. Money and power. We’re on the way! We’re taking over Oil Land!” “First things first. Did he say why he got in touch with you?” “It was a Dr. Wong who set up the lunch and she didn’t exactly say. Anyway, she’ll be there too.” Looking up and noting Fred’s befuddlement, Walt continues. “It may be about a speeding ticket. JB is known to burn up the road.” Walt takes a second reading and his thoughts turn to the to prospect of sending big invoices to the notorious JB Mailcoat at Real Rush Energy. And seriously rich and well-connected. His thoughts race headlong into his dreams. And may be appropriate for our goal of being the highest billing boutique law firm in all of Oil Land. He unfolds his lanky form with new purpose. It is a given that Walt dominates Fred. The youngest lawyer in Oil Land to be partner in a firm, he has turned tables on the ‘respect your elder’ motto, and always speaks to Fred as to a child. He pulls Fred’s strings. “Listen up Fred,” he says, “if it is The Big One, go for it. Try out your—” Before Walt can get Fred wound up, they are interrupted by a Junior bursting into the fire-exit stairwell, agitated and out of countenance as well as out of breath. “Mr. Fiddler, I’ve been looking all over for you. The Judge is waiting.” Fred snorts to the Junior, “Tell him to wait.” He then says to Walt, “What is the use of being a senior counsel if one does not upbraid the odd jumped-up judge?” His Junior disappears, looking worried, knowing that he will bear the brunt of the judge’s displeasure. This interruption has given Walt a chance to think about how much he can stand to make by pimping Fred out to JB Mailcoat and Real Rush. Forty hours a week at a thousand bucks an hour for let’s say as long as it takes to get Freedom North Pipeline to the Northwest Passage, five years? “Come on over here, strike your pose and try out your call, just in case JB Mailcoat is shopping for a revolution. Go ahead Fred.” Fred poses for Walt like a character from a Marvel comic, mumbling down into his barrister’s collar. “As I have always said. I have to take it over. I have to take Oil Land over.” “That’s we, Fred, and speak up. We have to Oil Land over. You can’t do it without my counsel and we can’t do it without JB’s retainer, and you know it.” Walt gives a conspiratorial order in Fiddler’s left ear. “Keep saying to yourself, Remember this is the Big One. Huge billable hours.” Fiddler explodes. “This is the Big One! Huge Billable Hours!” Walt says, “No Fred. Never say the ‘Billable Hours’ part out loud. Try it again and try your call for revolution like we practiced.” Fred squirms a little to let the message sink in. Then he puffs up, and bursts out with “This is the Big One! We’re taking Oil Land ... Over!”

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