a variety of partners at the Dumping Station, but one fella is singularly memorable. Graham was a lean, rangy ex-biker with the name Rev painted on his hardhat. I figured the nickname was a joke played off of Billy Graham, so I asked him.

“Billy Graham? What the hell?” he said, face wrinkling up like a prune. He thought about it for a moment, his eyes gleaming. “Though I have married and buried a few people.”

That was the only explanation I ever got. Rev had a bottomless sense of humor that saw the ludicrous in every situation—he managed to transform ordinary tasks into laugh out loud hilarity. He also had a healthy distrust of the bosses, and would demonstrate contrariness with them—it was always wonderful to have a frontshirt. The other one had a military bearing and a flat-top haircut.

Rev took charge, giving them a grand tour of the puckered arse-hole. He was friendly and accommodating. It was apparent that this was their first ever visit to the Dumping Station. They were wide-eyed, asking questions that reflected a stunning ignorance of procedures.

I simply stood by, watching and suppressing a smirk, knowing exactly what was coming. Rev positioned the investigators at a spot where they’d be out of the way, yet still get the full effect of the dense blast of grainy dust. He winked at me, and then climbed over to his side.

We unlocked the three cargo doors, readied ourselves, and on signal smashed them open in rapid succession and raced out of the billowing swell