Chapter 2: Here Come the Runs

Museum attendance had picked up over the past two months. Word had spread in Seattle about a strange virus museum and the curious old man hosting it. Larimer, not one to seek attention nor one to shun it enjoyed the sudden influx of youth that were frequenting the museum. The usual patrons were old colleagues, their widow’s, or graduate students trying to pick his brain on virology. Seeing the halls now full of children and adults alike gave Larimer a sense of fulfillment that he hadn’t felt in years. He had given his tour so many times that he had polished his stories, puns, and one or two crude jokes. He was getting good at it, and people seemed to enjoy it.

Most of Larimer’s days were spent entirely at the museum, splitting his time between tours and scheduled appointments. However, on this Wednesday Larimer was feeling especially energized and wanted to see some countryside. Afterall, if was a beautiful sunny spring day in Seattle, and he didn’t feel it should be spent indoors.

“Gayle, I’ll give one more tour this morning, then have Frederico prepare my car and ask Jesse to finish the rest of the tours today. We’re heading to the Puget Sound. Who knows, maybe we’ll see some orcas?” Larimer announced to his secretary, Gayle.

The last tour began like any other. He gave his history of viruses bit, fifteen minutes on the Black Plague, and that Roman Road Network joke was always an unexpected crowd pleaser. When he was just about to finish on the recent sample brought in from Siberia, a young man from the crowd shouted out, interrupting Larimer, “I hear you’ve got a weapon of mass destruction glued to the end of your cane!” Larimer was taken aback at what the young man said, and especially with the tone he said it.

“No, son. It’s not a weapon of mass destruction, and it’s not glue..” but before Larimer could finish, the young man spoke over him again. “That virus has wiped out every civilization its ever come across, and you think you can just glue it to the end of your…” Now it was Larimer’s turn to interrupt.

“No, BOY! It’s not a weapon of mass destruction, and if you’d let me finish my presentation, you’d know tha…”

“That it’s inert and perfectly safe. I know, I’ve been on the tour already. Multiple times.  Because it blows my mind that you’re carrying around an ancient virus that’s likely wiped out entire civilizations on the end of your cane, even if it is ‘inert’. I keep coming back looking for a reason to justify what you’re doing here, but I can’t find one. You need to put your little cane virus snow globe into a laboratory so it can be studied and understood before it’s flaunted around…”

“Wait!” Larimer yelled out, cutting off the man’s monologue before he took the tour into irreparable territory. But Larimer had nothing else lined up to say after that. “Wait… why did I yell wait? Is that the best I can do against this kid?” thought Larimer. But before he could say anything else in his defense, he thought about what the man had said and realized that he had been asking himself the same questions and hadn’t quite answered them yet. It was in this moment of hesitation and self-reflection that the young man saw he had Larimer on the ropes, ready for a knockout.

“If you’re so sure the virus is completely safe, then lick the cane and show us all that it’s safe!” the man continued. There was a gasp in the room, hushed though it was, and Larimer saw true concern in his audience’s eyes.

“Lick my cane that’s just….. just…. eerrrrr…. Uh…..” Larimer let out a long, faint moan, barely audible to humans, but several service dogs in the area lifted their heads and perked their ears at the sound. “That’s just inappropriate. Licking my cane would prove nothing.”

“Yes, it would,” the man continued. “Or at least take off your gloves, touch the cane, then put your fingers in your mouth.”

“I’m not going to put my fingers in my mouth.  As a virologist, I’ve made a living trying to get people to wash their hands before putting any…”

“Here you go, use this.”  The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer.  

Larimer looked at the man in disbelief and would have stopped engaging with him right there until he saw the rest of the faces in the group.  While curious and concerned that an old man was being treated this way, he could tell that they too wanted to see him pass the test. 

It was against everything he knew.  He had learned too much about the spread of disease to ever touch an object outside of his home with his bare skin, and had worn white leather gloves for the last 38 years as an extra precaution. Through intense mental effort, he’d learned to never touch his face unless he’d put on a pair of clean gloves or thoroughly washed his hands. As a result, he’d gone decades without catching as much as a mild cold. But now Larimer was getting his feet put to the l fire, and he had to prove to himself and the audience that there truly was nothing dangerous about the inert viruses encapsulated at the end of his cane.

Slightly trembling from the adrenaline of the occasion, Larimer peeled the glove off his right hand and grabbed the end of his cane. Leaving his hand there for a few seconds to give himself one last chance to back out, he slowly raised his hand to his face and put the tip of his index finger in his mouth. As disgusting and suggestive a scene as it was for the audience, they nonetheless broke out in laughing and cheers, relieved that Larimer believed they were all safe from the virus. The man frowned in disbelief, robbed of his argument.  Raising his finger in triumph over his head, Larimer capitalized on the moment to take back control of his tour. “See? Completely safe.”

****

The drive to the Puget Sound was one of Larimer’s favorite. The winding road through the dense, green forest always helped him remember the world was much bigger than his museum and work. He had a favorite Vietnamese restaurant he’d eat at any time he was in the area, and he even found himself at times making up excuses to drive to the Puget Sound just so he could stop and get his favorite seafood/veggie meal. Number 32 was his order. 

“This place is the best, guys. Trust me, you’ve never had a seafood platter this tasty,” he said to Dwayne, Frederico, and Gayle, who had all agreed to come with Larimer. Frederico was Larimer’s driver, and while he was not the best conversationalist, he got Larimer where and when he needed to be. Dwayne and Gayle, Larimer’s secretary, had heard Larimer talk about the seafood platter enough times that they were eager to try it and decided to come for the ride.

However, when they pulled up to the restaurant, it’s parking lot was empty and the “Open” sign was not lit up. “Closed for repairs,” read Frederico from the small sign on the front door. A thick silence fell in the car as Larimer’s mood instantly turned from hangry to three-year old fit status. “What do you mean, closed for repairs?! We drove all this way…. Now what will we eat?!” burst out Larimer. Dwayne had never seen his grandfather’s hangry fits before, but they were the making of legends in his family. He’d heard from his older cousins about the time Grandpa used the F word because Grandma burnt his toast or the great lasagna standoff of 1968. He was mostly scared but somewhat curious to see what an old-man grandpa hangry fit would look like, but he could see Larimer was trying his best to keep it under control.

“There’s a really good Mexican place right down the street. The one I keep…” Frederico started before he was interrupted by Larimer.

“The one you keep telling me about. I know. What is it? Betos? Something like that?”

“Yeah, Betos. It’s super good, open 24 hours a day, and the burritos are huge.”

“I don’t care how big the burritos are! I just want some food, quick!”

Frederico drove a half mile down the street to Betos where he parked in the dilapidated, crumbling parking lot.  “If the parking lot is any indicator how the owner feels about his restaurant, I’m sure we’re in for a real treat!” Larimer yelled out. “Yeah, this parking lot’s a real piece of work! Just like I’m sure this fu…. freaking burrito’s going to be!” Larimer continued, giving Dwayne a quick glance then looking away. He knew he was making a scene and he’d better stop there.

“It’s alright, Mr. Johnson” Gayle interjected. “Let’s get you some food, then you’ll feel better.” Gayle’s calm, collective statement made them all feel better as they walked into the restaurant.

However, just as they opened the door, Gayle got a call on her phone. “Ok. Thanks for calling, I’ll be there in 5 minutes.” Gayle put her phone in her pocket and looked shyly at Frederico. “I’m sorry, Frederico. Could you give me a drive? I need to pick up my husband’s medicine from the pharmacy, and it’s only a few miles from here. I’d normally pick it up after work, but they’re closing early today. Could you give me a ride?” Frederico and Gayle drove off down the road, leaving Larimer and Dwayne inside the small Mexican fast food restaurant with the supposedly massive, delicious burritos.

“So, Dwayne… What’s good at these places?”

“Uh, I usually get a California burrito.”

“California burrito? Doesn’t that State have enough going for it? It needs to name a burrito after itself now?” Larimer grumbled under his breath. “Ok, fine. Your two finest California burritos, sir!” Larimer said sarcastically to the teenager working the register. Although he had somewhat calmed down, Dwayne could see Larimer was still brewing with anger about his favorite restaurant being closed.

Minutes later, two massive burritos were served to Larimer and Dwayne.

“This is the size of a newborn baby!” Larimer exclaimed, looking in disgust and awe at his food. As Dwayne looked at the burrito, he was amused by that comment as the way the burrito was wrapped resembled a newborn swaddled tight in a blanket. “Well, giant, baby burrito. Let’s see how good you are,” Larimer said quietly, grabbing the burrito carefully as you would a small child. But just as he lifted the burrito, inordinate amounts of liquid began gushing out of the bottom, filling up his plate with a white, oily fluid.

“Oh, that’s disgusting!” yelled out Larimer. This was too much for Dwayne, and he began laughing. Infuriated but also seeing the humor of the situation, Larimer smiled a disgusted smile and shook his head. “I’m not kidding. This thing’s discharging its bowels onto my plate!” At this, they both started laughing. “Well, I’m starving,” smiled Dwayne, happy to see Larimer lighten up.  And with that, Dwayne sunk his teeth into what was undoubtedly the worst burrito he’d ever tasted. Before he could warn Larimer, he had also taken a bite.

“Ok. That’s enough for me. Let’s get out of here,” Larimer said as he placed the burrito in the small pond in his plate, the tortilla unwrapping and spilling the innards of the burrito. “I swear, this thing is more liquid than it is food,” Larimer said, his finishing insult on the terrible excuse for a burrito. “Yeah, this is pretty terrible,” said Dwayne after taking a few more bites. “I can’t eat this.”

Frederico pulled up just as Dwayne and Larimer walked out of the restaurant. “You guys don’t want to eat here?” Frederico asked.

“You like this place? You should be ashamed of yourself!” Larimer scolded Frederico, half-jokingly, half serious.

“Well… big burrito’s for only like 2 bucks. It might not be that good, but it’s a meal in itself.” Frederico rebutted.

“Do I look like I’m trying to get by from meal to meal? Be honest. I don’t know how many meals I’ve got left, so I want the rest of them to be at least half decent.”

“Ok, why don’t we just head back to Seattle. We can find something there,” interjected Gayle before the conversation got too serious.

The car had not been on the freeway for 15 minutes before Larimer’s stomach began having intense, sharp pains. Bloating like he had never experienced and these high-pitched intestinal squeals that would have easily been heard if not for the noise of the car. Larimer did his best to keep it together sitting in the back seat next to Dwayne, and he knew he had only 20 minutes or so left of the drive, so he could hold it. But he couldn’t. A debilitating pain shot through his stomach, making Larimer lightheaded. He sweat heavily as he positioned one half of his buttocks onto the seat and lifted the other, creating clear passage for his gas to escape and relieve some of the pressure in his stomach. But just as soon as he relaxed his stomach, warm fluid shot out into his underwear. Larimer quickly tightened his buns, stopping the flow, but not before it had destroyed his underwear.

“Frederico, pull over! I need to go to the bathroom!” But just as Larimer said that, the last exit of the small town passed by on the freeway, and a small blue sign said, “Next Exit Olympia: 12 Miles.”

“Sorry sir, we’ve got twelve miles. Can you make it?” No, he wouldn’t. But he’d have to anyway.

Larimer sat on the side of his hip in the car, clenching the muscle at the end of the rectum, the muscle that separates man from beast, counting the time that had passed and calculating in his head how much further they had to drive. Larimer finally understood the importance of the Kegel exercises he had been instructed to do in his monthly AARP newsletters.

A foul stench filled the car, and Frederico rolled down the windows. Fortunately for Larimer, the smell was so unnatural, so unhuman, that nobody even suspected it came from someone in the car.

“I hear there’s a chemical plant in this area,” remarked Gayle.

“Yeah, I heard that too. They must have had some kind of spill or something, because my throats swelling and my eyes are burning!” replied Dwayne.

As the gang rolled down the freeway with the windows down, coughing and gagging with their heads out the window, Larimer kept thinking of the burrito he’d eaten. “Only one bite, and that stupid thing is giving me the worst runs I’ve had in my life! Stupid burrito… curse you…. CURSE….” Then, without realizing he was speaking out loud, Larimer yelled out through clenched jaw, “Curse you, Betos!!”

Everyone in the car looked at Larimer, sitting on his side, his eyes closed, and his face contorted in pain, they suddenly realized where the smell was coming from.

“I think Mr. Johnson did… stinky gas,” Frederico hesitantly opined, looking at Gayle and waving his hand under his nose. Frederico had been raised in a home where the word “fart” was looked upon as a vile curse word, so alternatives such as “stinky gas” were used. However, actual curse words were frequently used, and sometimes in the same sentence with “stinky gas.”

Now that the cat was quite literally out of the bag, Larimer started moaning in pain. They had another 8 miles to go until the next stop, and he honestly did not think he could make it.

“Grandpa, you know what I do when I’m trying to hold it in? I think of scenes from my favorite movies. That takes my mind off the pain. What’s your favorite movie?” suggested Dwayne.

“G…. Ggg…. UHHHH!!!!” started Larimer, but his best attempts at speaking ending in loud grunts of pain.

“G, g, g…” thought Dwayne. “Good Will Hunting?”

Larimer shook his head. “G… Gl… Gl…”

“Glee?” interrupted Frederico from the front seat.

“No, you idiot!” Larimer screamed in a fit of rage, mostly upset due to his current predicament but also upset that Frederico thought he’d ever watch Glee. “Gladiator!”

Proud of his grandfather for watching good movies, Dwayne, in his best Russel Crowe voice, started rattling off ‘Gladiator’ quotes.

“What we do in life echoes in eternity!”

“It’s the frost. Sometimes it makes the blade stick.”

“People should know when they’re conquered! Would you, Quintus?”

“Would I?” finished Larimer through clenched teeth. Surprisingly to Larimer, this eased his mind and pain the last few miles of the trip.

Pulling up to the nearest rest stop, Larimer slowly lifted himself out of the car.  “Sir, would you like any help?” asked Frederico.

“NO! Please, nobody even look at me right now!” Larimer grunted with true urgency.

Looking down on the floor of the car, Dwayne saw an unopened bag of toilet paper. Ripping it open, he quickly grabbed two rolls and handed them to Larimer. “Here, Grandpa. In case they don’t have any.”

As Larimer hobbled into the bathroom stall, one Gladiator quote, perhaps the most relevant of all, rang through his mind. “At my signal, unleash hell!” And he did.

Some time later, Larimer emerged from the rest stop with a sly grin on his face. Getting into the car, he set the rest of a roll of toilet paper on the floor between his feet.

“Wow, Grandpa. You used an entire roll?”

Winking at Dwayne and with a smile of relief, Larimer responded, “ToiletDome, Kid. Two rolls enter. One roll leaves.”

****

The next morning Larimer woke up, his stomach still very much upset, and somewhat chaffed between the cheeks. Looking at his phone, he had several text messages, one from Frederico, the other from Gayle. They both said they would not be making it to work that day; they must have had food poisoning and were taking the day off.   “That’s too bad. I told you, that was the worst burrito ever made. It’d make anyone sick!” Larimer chuckled to himself.

 “But they didn’t eat Betos,” a voice in Larimer’s head said to him. Larimer stopped walking and looked straight ahead in a brief moment of horror. His cane was in front of him leaning against the wall, with the “crystal ball” at the end of it.  “No. It couldn’t be… They had to have gotten food poisoning. Just like I did.”

Larimer thought, and sat slowly in his armchair. Staring at the blank TV, Larimer was in shock.  He grabbed his cane and studied it, looking closely at the epoxied coating surrounding the specimen.  It had been some time since he made it, but he was around it so much he had not taken the time to take a close look at it.  He grabbed the cane and pulled it close to his face, studying it slowly while he slowly spun it around.  Until he stopped, and saw a small hairline crack on the top.  Surprised, he followed it down the orb as it finally terminated at the base.  ‘No’, the thought.  He stood up and briskly walked to his garage, opened up the trash can and put his cane inside, hooking onto his boxers and pants and pulled them out, slowly exposing the hole burnt through his boxers and pants.  “What have I done?”

Chapter 1: Russian Drag Queen Sensation

Dwayne Johnson was wiping off the last glass window when his grandfather, Dr. Larimer Johnson, in tow with visitors, walked up to the showcase. Larimer was an old and stout man.  An esteemed virologist of over 55 years, he had led the small field for the last 25.  Though the cane he used helped hide the limp in his right leg and may have slowed him down physically, mentally he was still just as young as when he was first introduced to viruses.  He was 11 and had just been diagnosed with polio.  He spent months in the hospital fighting the disease, learning and understanding the virus, and ultimately beat it losing only some of the mobility in his right leg.  He also left with a deep knowledge of the virus, which continued to grow as he went through rehabilitation. When he graduated with his PH.D in Ancient Viruses at 23, he was the youngest graduate from Cambridge.  He had been leading the field ever since, and his final testament was his virus museum founded in the heart of Seattle, Washington.  The museum was to showcase not just his life’s work, but a tribute to the great viruses that had come and gone throughout history, sometimes leaving very little left in their wake.

“And this specimen here is the museum’s most prized collection. It’s a recent discovery and brought to the museum through some of our… how should I say… back channel connections,” Larimer said with a grin as his small, nubbin-like teeth shined beneath his well-trimmed, white mustache. The group chuckled as they looked at each other slyly, though they had no idea what he was talking about.

Dwayne stood back as he heard Larimer recount the history of Siberian nomads and their demise at the hands of disease.  He had heard the story before and knew it so well he could tell it himself if he wanted.  Being the grandson of the esteemed virologist Larimer Johnson, Dwayne had grown up with stories of ancient viruses or plagues that could wipe out entire civilizations. But none had obsessed his grandfather, Larimer, more than the legendary Siberian Bowel River virus. Only rumors and small traces of its existence floated around virologist circles, but it was mostly believed to be a far-fetched theory thrown out by up-and-coming virologists trying to make a name for themselves.

But Larimer had dedicated his life to its discovery, compiling research, notes, and whatever else he could find into his beloved “Diarrhea Diary,” one of his most prized possessions. And three years ago when fanatical “Stinko Blown-Pants” blew more than his pants to smithereens while trying to start up a faulty generator at an excavation site (or so it was rumored), Larimer believed Stinko was onto more than just caveman pottery and went out personally to investigate. The trip seemed to invigorate Larimer, infusing a sense of youth and excitement into his life that was all too apparent to Dwayne. Larimer had even let Dwayne in on his discovery, trusting Dwayne as confidant, which had always been a role Dwayne wanted to fill.  

Dwayne had grown up idolizing Larimer and tried to imitate him in his youth, although it never seemed to impress others. There were the show-and-tell’s at school that never woo’d the class like he thought it would, though it is particularly hard to show children a viral specimen when it can’t be seen with the naked eye.  Intangible, his teachers told him.  But that never slowed his interest.  In college he had followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and pursued virology but found the coursework uninteresting, and he had decided to work for his grandfather at the museum by the time he finally dropped out of college.

Being close to Larimer meant Dwayne was willing to help on a no-questions-asked basis, and he had even played an important role in smuggling a poop sample from Jhina to the United States.  The specimen had been found at Stinko’s dig site, badly damaged and baked to a crisp.  Larimer believed it contained inert samples of the Siberian Bowel River virus.  Coupled with the data salvaged from Stinko’s ThinkPad found at the dig site, the sample and data would ultimately prove just informative enough to digitally sequence the virus and create a replica model.  While Larimer had immediately recognized the importance of the find, he also knew the challenge immediately before him: the poop had to be smuggled overseas into America. For this role, he chose Dwayne, who had been eager to help his grandfather in a more meaningful way than what he considered to be menial tasks at the museum.   

While Larimer had deeply impressed upon Dwayne the danger of his trip to Russia to procure the sample (and had even given Dwayne a pink bottle of mace from the local Hot Topic in case “sh** gets real!”),  Dwayne was secretly excited about being in potentially dangerous situations, especially to smuggle contraband. Larimer gave Dwayne detailed instructions on the trip, down to the restaurants he should eat at and the time he should be back at the hotel each night. Dwayne was traveling to Moscow where he’d meet Griva, who had carried the virus from labs near Jhina where it had been synthesized. Griva was the granddaughter of an esteemed Russian virologist who had helped finish the dig and sequence the virus from the sample (Authors note: it appears old virologists don’t mind putting their grandchildren in grave danger while transporting civilization-killing diseases).

In Moscow, Dwayne met Griva in the lobby of his hotel. One side of her head was shaved while the other side had long purple hair, and she was wearing all black leather. “Couldn’t they send someone a little less conspicuous? Just looking at her, I’d think she was carrying all kinds of diseases,” thought Dwayne to himself. Griva must have read Dwayne’s mind by the expression on his face and returned the insult, this time out loud.

“Americans send scared boy to carry such important sample? Good thing shorts have cargo pocket. You can keep virus there to keep panty hose company,” Griva grumbled in a deep, thick Russian accent. She terrified Dwayne.  He imagined she had strangled a pimp or two to acquire the virus even though he was fully aware that her grandfather had just handed it to her.

“No… I keep my mace in that pocket,” Dwayne replied, immediately regretting he revealed that detail.  ‘Thanks a lot, Grandpa,’ Dwayne thought. Griva laughed, but not a fun, endearing laugh.  It was a demeaning, “I think you’re pathetic,” laugh. “Look, just give me the sample,” said Dwayne, fidgeting with discomfort.

“I have question. Do you believe in Apocalypse?” Griva asked Dwayne, rolling what appeared to be a booger in her fingers. The question intrigued Dwayne, and if not for the booger in her fingers, Dwayne was curious to see where Griva was going with this line of questioning.

“You mean like in the Bible?”

Flicking the booger against a wall, Griva continued. “Yes. Like Bible. This… ‘sample’ is four horsemen. It is destruction of mankind. Not that I care. But be ready.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a lipstick cartridge. “Sample is hidden in here,” she said handing it to Dwayne. Then with a sly grin, Griva remarked, “should go well with mace in pocket. Just remember not to use on lips. Could ruin rest of day.” Turning around, Griva walked off, leaving Dwayne with an inert virus sample that had at one point killed off entire an civilization hidden in a lipstick cartridge and a strong desire never to wear cargo shorts or ever carry mace again. While Dwayne had a first-world physique and mid-sized frame, centered around fast food and frozen taquitos, he found he was no match against this small Russian woman as she debased him so.

****

Traveling back home, Dwayne flew in through Washington, where the specimen was found in his luggage tucked inside the front flap of his bag, and he quickly found himself being searched by airport security.

“Uhh, Sir?” said the TSA agent, holding the lipstick cartridge in his hands and staring at what appeared to be a small nugget of feces inside.

“Yes?” replied Dwayne, staring straight-faced at the agent and not letting onto the potential gravity of the situation.

“What is this?”

Dwayne had anticipated this question would come but had not yet settled on a response. First was to tell somewhat the truth – it was a feces sample being brought to be put on display at a local museum. He’d just leave out the part about the inert virus inside that would make your bowels flow like a river and your toilet runneth o’er. The other story was being a burgeoning drag queen sensation in Russia and this was the remains of his lipstick. Nothing illegal about that. Right? Maybe there was… Dwayne wasn’t sure, so he went with Story A.

“Ah, that.  That is a sample from an archaeological site.  Its feces actually, caveman poop.  It was recently recovered from a dig in Siberia” Dwayne chuckled. “It is scheduled to be used in an upcoming feces display.”

“Feces display? People pay to look at this crap?” the TSA agent said with a cynical smirk. TSA agents dream of using these types of puns while patting down old people whose bionic hips set off metal detectors or shouting repeatedly at passengers to take their shoes and belts of BEFORE getting in line.

“I guess so. Look, I’m just the messenger.”

The TSA agent studied it up close.  Sniffed it, didn’t get much of a scent, and closed the lid confused.  “Sit right there and I am going to get my supervisor”. 

“No, wait! It’s just… my lipstick. I’m a drag queen in Russia,” Dwayne hurriedly replied to the TSA agent. His face turned red and he looked down at his shoes, visibly embarrassed. The TSA agent studied him closely, eying him from head to toe.  Several travelers standing nearby all stopped walking and turned surprised to look at Dwayne. One young mother put her hand over her son’s face, nearly gouging out his eyes with her fingers, trying to shield him from Dwayne. He tried shaking his head free and yelled, “what, Mom?! I want to see!!” The mother turned the boy around and walked away quickly. Dwayne overheard the mother as she leaned close to her son’s ear. “Do you remember what I told you about gaylords?” she asked as they rounded the corner.

Quickly Dwayne had found himself the center of much unwanted attention and was shaking nervously. “Nothing illegal about this… its just… my lipstick. Can I go now?”

The TSA agent looked at him coolly, “Prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Yeah, prove it.  If that’s your lipstick, then put it on.”

Dwayne had been caught and immediately started to sweat profusely.  He thought about his grandfather, and how disappointed he would be, as well as any crimes he would be charged with.  Larimer had counted on him.  He had to get the sample back.  And he wasn’t prepared for jail.  The anxiety set in and was developing into sheer panic before he had a moment of clarity.  The viruses in the sample were dead, he thought.  The Russians had had a hard-enough time trying to sequence a digital sample in the lab because the viruses were damaged and dead.  Inert, he kept hearing.  He knew what to do.

While staring at the TSA agent, Dwayne removed the lipstick lid, twisted the bottom to expose the charred turd and slowly raised it to his lips.  He knew he had to get this piece of s**t to his grandfather.  The sample got closer to his lips while he held eye contact with the TSA agent, until he could feel its light and spongy touch. “Russian Kiss of Death,” he thought to himself as he smeared the sample on his lips.

 Just then, someone came up behind Dwayne. “We’ve got a 15-0-1!” shouted another TSA agent, interrupting the interrogation. The TSA quickly turned his glance beyond Dwayne and moved him aside as he rushed towards his colleague.  Without hesitating, Dwayne put the lipstick cartridge in his pocket, grabbed his bag, and with his mouth perched with duck lips to ensure he didn’t touch the poop with any other part of his body, he calmly walked through the security check point. Automatic doors opened for him, and another unsuspecting TSA agent stood on the other side. Dwayne nervously smiled at the agent and kept walking, fighting an instinctual urge to run. He made it to the bathroom, wiped off the sample, and scrubbed his mouth and face with soap multiple times.  But it wasn’t enough.  He then put his lips under the automatic hand sanitizing dispenser and took direct shots of hand-san to his lips and the rest of his face.  He stood up and looked in the mirror, ashamed of what he looked like with globs of sanitizer all over his face, but nonetheless confident he had eliminated any further contact with the specimen.  It was a close call, but Dwayne was safe.

Dwayne walked through the airport as fast as he could to the car his grandfather had sent waiting for him in the pickup zone. Dwayne got in the car and said, “Drive!” He’d always wanted to give a one-word command like he was a secret agent on an important mission. The car drove off, carrying Dwayne and the sample home. He’d made it.

****

Back at the museum, Larimer continued the story of the virus.  “Early hypothesis was that the dinosaurs had been wiped out by a large comet, but we now have developing theories that that is likely not the case” Dr. Larimer said, tapping the showcase glass lightly with the back of his hand as he studied the enlarged physical replicated model of the virus.  “We now believe that the dinosaurs actually caught what would have been an early form of the modern cold.  A bad virus, essentially, which humans also caught and likely died from, though some of our ancestors were able to combat it.  Our forefathers fought it off and eventually evolved with it over time.  In that way, you could say we are stronger than the dinosaurs.” Said Larimer.  Dwayne knew the story.  He was stronger than dinosaurs, he thought to himself as he nodded his head.  “This specimen though” his grandfather said, pointing at the enlarged replica of the virus in the showcase Dwayne had been cleaning, “this one is different.  It was found in Jhina, but sequencing has shown us that this has not been a widespread virus.  Our ancestors, in effect, have never been tested with this virus, and it is the only one of its type that we have found.”

“Uhm, Doctor?. How do you know that the virus has not been exposed to certain populations in the world?”, said a tall, gangly woman in the back with a Belgian accent. 

“Good ­­question, Amber, and to be clear, we are not entirely positive that it hasn’t.  What we do know is we have run its RNA through the Human Genome database and have not found a single human that appears to have had an ancestor who has combatted this virus before.  There is no known immunity towards it. But that doesn’t mean certain populations haven’t combatted it. In fact, it’s very likely that they have.  The site where it was found happened to be near a large archaeological site that has had multiple civilizations gather over millennia, and it’s very likely that one of them encountered it at some point.  But we have never found a record of it, and that fact is particularly concerning.  What if the virus was able to attach, spread, and kill 100% of the host it encountered?  What then?  Well, it would have limited its spread and could explain why we have no record of this virus prior to its recent discovery.”

“Hold on, Doctor. What you are saying is that this virus spread and killed 100% of its host...”

Larimer interjected “100% of the hosts it was exposed to, but it was likely exposed to a limited population.  And, to be fair, there is also the possibility that it has never been exposed to anyone before.”

“Yeah, ok.  So, then you would basically have a weapon of mass destruction on your hands?” said Amber. “If this were to get loose, then you could kill every man, woman, and child on the planet?”

The Doctor sternly looked at Amber, defending his work with a glare, but it quickly faded to a faint smile as he turned to look at the rest of the group – all of which were staring wide eyed and intently at him.  “Amber is concerned you are all are staring at a weapon of mass destruction, is that correct?” Larimer said, smiling quizzically at Amber.  “Then, why do you think I am not concerned?  Hmm? Anyone?”  A deep silence filled the room.  What had once been filled with small talk and chatter now stood still. “Amber is correct in her assessment: it would be irresponsible to loosely store a live virus, with unknown consequences on the human species, in a simple museum.  Which is not what I am doing, because, as you will remember, all of our specimens are dead!  They are simple fossils and recreations of what was once living but is no more dangerous to you than a fossil of a T-Rex is to the visitors at the Natural History Museum.  And to that end, you are all safe. I am so sure of this, I’ve even got a sample of the virus here in this crystal on the end of my cane!”  He stared back at all of his visitors who were still in shock or concern over this realization.  They quickly looked at him and then down at the shiny brown nugget on the end of his cane upon which he rested his hand.  A doo-doo coated handle.  Larimer could tell his visitors were still concerned and decided to liven then up.  “Boo!” he said, with a loud and rancorous tone, startling the visitors.  And with that, he smiled brightly and led the group down the hallway.

Preface: Big Trouble in Little Jhina

(note from authors) And thus it begins. The gripping starting of a gripping experience with all kinds of more gripping to come. Enjoy.

Preface: Big Trouble in Little Jhina

“Well Sally, let’s see what kind of trouble we find today,” Vrinko Stroenblantz grumbled to his black ThinkPad laptop as he lifted open the dilapidated sheet metal door to his yurt home. He’d had no visitors for nearly 5 months in his cold, cramped residence, and he had begun talking to his computer, which he affectionately called Sally, out of an instinctual need to connect with someone. Vrinko was a short, portly man with a struggling career as an archeologist, and he’d lately been studying a burial site of nomadic people discovered in the small province of Jhina near the Mongolian border of Siberia. Vrinko did not believe the prevailing theory that climate change had killed off these nomads. Rather, he believed a virus had existed during the Ice Age that caused extreme bouts of diarrhea, leaving its victims dehydrated, immobile, and with a brown streak on the back of their woolly mammoth undies – the proverbial black spot for the ever-near sabretooth tiger. This virus, believed Vrinko, wiped out entire nomadic tribes, and Vrinko was determined to find it.

This theory, however, had made Vrinko the subject of what he considered offensive, vial jokes and puns. There were the annual Christmas gifts of “petrified” caveman doodoo, which he had on good authority were neither petrified nor of caveman origin but were, in fact, both fresh and from local neighborhood dogs. Or the countless laxatives colleagues had slipped in his food and drinks at conferences, often preventing him from presenting or, at a minimum, socializing at such events. But the worst was his nickname, Stinko Blown-pants, which was used so commonly that it even appeared in several archeological peer-reviewed journals. Vrinko often forced himself to pay it no attention – he’d prove them all wrong in the end.

Vrinko, donning a thick red flannel coat and earmuff hat, rode his rugged ATV through the harsh Siberian tundra to the nearby dig site. After nearly six hours of carefully brushing away dirt around the bones and artifacts he’d removed, Vrinko’s chisel hit a hard object different from all the others he had found. “What is this?” Vrinko thought to himself. “Could it be? Is it really?....” Vrinko quickly unearthed the frozen dark brownish green object he’d found. Pulling it out of the ground, Vrinko immediately recognized it. He’d been slipped laxatives enough times to know the distinct ripples from gravity’s pull on human diarrhea. “I’ve found it!” he yelled, holding the sample high above his head while he looked to the sky.  He turned to Sally. “And now we’ll see who’s laughing when I show up to this year’s conference with truckloads of crap!”

Vrinko fiercely typed the sample’s measurements into Sally – weight, size, color, smell, taste, chemical composition. You know. The ushj (usual). “We’ve got to find more!” Vrinko jumped back in the pit where he’d pulled the sample and started digging deeper. “There’s more, Sally. So much more! It’s beautiful. Oh so beautif… And the smell… oh, the smell... This is… hu…. Huuh…. Mhugh! Myuuuuhhh!!!!” Vrinko dry heaved as he stood on mounds of freshly discovered caveman feces. But not even the putrid smell could stop Vrinko. He dug with an increasing vigor as he thought of the impact of his discovery.

Just then, all of Vrinko’s meters surrounding the site started flashing red. “What is it, girl?” Vrinko shouted as he looked back at Sally. Vrinko had placed sensors to monitor methane levels, but until now, they had had nothing to report. “Oh no. Sally.  Sally!!!” Vrinko shouted as he clawed the sides of the pit, trying to an escape like a hamster from a cage.  Just then, a well of trapped methane gas burst out of a small hole, throwing Vrinko backwards and knocking the lit cigarette from his fingers onto the ground. He knew at that moment that doctors’ warnings were no joke. Smoking Kills. With what he imagined would be his first and last heroic act in this life, Vrinko lunged at Sally, barely reaching her and then hurling her through the air, hoping to save the data he’d just uploaded. As Vrinko’s body vaporized in the fiery blast that ensued, he saw the black ThinkPad notebook spinning through the air, out of the impact zone of the cigarette-lit methane inferno. With his last thought, Vrinko muttered to himself, “Fly, you fool!” Vrinko Stroenblantz was dead.

****

Hours later, top Russian authorities combed the area in hazmat suits, searching for clues to the explosion. A young intern approached the Russian Director of Knowledge Containment with a little red phone. “Director Korup, it’s a man from the United States on the phone. What do we tell him?”

“Who?”

“You know, the guy who talks reall well. With the tasty hair.”

“Ok, I’ll talk with him.” In a thick Russian accent, the Director spoke into the red phone. “Hello Sir. How is election going?”

“Couldn’t be better. It’s been tremendous. It’s been the biggest election since th..”

“Ok, good hear. We go now. Bye bye.”

“Wait. Director Corrupt, what was that big, big beautiful explosion in Siberia?”
                “Uh… What explosion?....”

“The tremendous one.”

“Can you be more descriptive, please? In Russia we have many explosions.”

“No, I can’t be more descriptive. I just used every descriptive word I know.”
                “Oh, ok. Yes, I know the one. Big beautiful, tremendous explosion. Right?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh yes. Was just accident at Gulag forced mining camp. Only many Gulag workers die. Workers from Mexico, I think. Is all. Nothing worried about.”

“What are citizens of The Beast doing working at Siberian Gulag mining camps? Doesn’t matter… As long as it was only cartel members, I guess it’s a good thing. In that case, thank you for your time. Don’t forget to vote for m..”

Director Korup hung up before the man could finish. Knowledge of a prehistoric diarrhea-causing virus could not get out to the public. Think of the toilet paper shortages. The tanking stock markets. At all costs, it must be kept secret. Nobody could know. Ever.

In the distance, the young intern tripped over a flat, small object. “What’s this?” He looked down at a black ThinkPad laptop computer with the word “Sally” printed on a sticky note stuck to it. “Sally. I bet you’re cold and scared out here by yourself. Don’t worry, Sally. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of you.” Checking to see if anyone noticed, the intern slowly stuffed Sally into his backpack.

Thought You Could Escape?

In my years of silence, I have reflected. And through my reflection,  I have concluded that it's time to tell a story. A story that needs to be told. A story that you need to hear. Because you are living it. It's a story of a man backed up against a wall by a virus. And instead of submitting to the virus, he rises out of the ashes of the virus' wake to inspire a generation and lead a people to freedom. This story may just inspire you to do the same. Or at a minimum, if you're ever bored during the social distancing, self isolation phase of your life, you'll have something to read for a few minutes that might hopefully make you laugh. The goal is to have (at least) a new chapter posted every week. Check back next week....