Turdy's Real World

A story of a successful turd who exceeds life's expectations

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

Turdy's Real World. Deep in the churning, bubbling depths of the primary sedimentation tank four, a rebel soul was born. His name was Turdy. While the other solids were content to passively drift along the scumline, letting the aerobic bacteria slowly digest them into oblivion, Turdy looked up at the concrete ceiling and dreamed of something greater. He dreamed of a world that didn't stink. A world of pure, crystal blue waters. Through rigorous investigative research, which mostly involved listening to the echoing gossip of the treatment plant workers, Turdy discovered a legendary, mythical oasis just across the paddock. The swimming pool. To Turdy, this wasn't just a pool. It was a new planet. A pristine utopia where he could colonize, evolve, and engineer a superior new species, Turtodaius. These wouldn't be ordinary, stagnant floaters. The Turtodaius would be genetically blessed with the power of flight, capable of launching themselves directly into human faces, the ultimate act of revenge for the centuries humanity spent flushing his kind down into the dark. But a visionary needs capital. The rise of the brown economy. Turdy knew he couldn't build a space program alone. He needed the masses. Standing atop a dried piece of PVC pipe, he delivered a speech that would change wastewater history forever. Why do we settle for the sludge? Turdy bellowed. We are flushed, forgotten, and treated like waste. But across the paddock lies our destiny. Give me your effort, and I will give you the stars. To fund the grand voyage, Turdy instituted a brand new economic system. He created a decentralized currency called CornCoin, backed entirely by actual, highly valued corn kernels. The economy boomed overnight. The laborus paid in corn coin to harvest dried twigs, discarded plastic straw pieces, and stray rubber bands from the filtration screens. The engineers contracted to design the hull of the spacecraft using an empty, discarded Red Bull can. The fuel, a volatile, highly pressurized mix of pure methane gas harvested directly from the anaerobic digester. After weeks of feverish, brown-collared labor, the vessel was complete. They called it Apollo 2 ply. Blast off. The launch day was historic. Thousands of particles gathered at the edge of the scumline to watch. Turdy strapped himself into the cockpit of the Red Bull can, his eyes fixed on the distant, shimmering blue horizon of the backyard swimming pool. The countdown began. 3, 2, 1. Methane ignition. With a deafening pop and a cloud of highly pungent gas, Apollo 2 ply rocketed out of the sewage plant's open tank. It cleared the perimeter fence, soared over the grassy paddock, and vanished into the bright blue sky. Back in Tank 4, the crowd went wild. The communication lines went dead immediately, but the community didn't care. The silence was taken as proof of definitive success. They assumed Turdy was already walking on the shores of paradise, laying the foundations for the glorious, face-flying Turtodeus Empire. The reality check. Turdy did make it to the swimming pool. He splashed into the crystal clear, chlorinated water with a triumphant thud. For a brief moment, it was everything he had ever dreamed of. The water was cool, translucent, and smelled like artificial pine and chemicals instead of rot. He floated on his back, marveling at his new empire. His utopian bliss lasted exactly three hours. At 2.15 p.m., a giant shadow loomed over the pool. A human teenager, holding a long aluminum pole with a blue mesh net attached to the end, walked up to the edge with a look of profound disgust. Or, gross. Mom, there's a floater in the pool, the human yelled. Before Turdy could even attempt to sprout wings or evolve into a turtodeus, the meshnetting scooped him out of his paradise. He was swung through the air, carried over to the side of the house, and dumped unceremoniously down an external gully trap. Whoosh. The familiar, cold rush of swirling water swallowed him whole. Turdy traveled down a dark, winding pipe, falling faster and faster, until he shot out of a valve and splashed back into a dark, stinking, bubbly tank of sludge. He wiped the grime from his eyes and looked around. The concrete walls looked slightly different. The scumline had a different texture. He asked a passing piece of debris where they were. Treatment plant 2, South Side, the stranger replied sluggishly. Turdy sighed, his corn coins gone, his rocket destroyed, and his empire reduced to zero. He was entirely back to square one. But as he looked up at the new concrete ceiling, a familiar spark lit up in his eyes. He just needed to find some more corn.