Operation Rubbish Bin

A Thriller About Taking the Rubbish Out

He approached the sink with a queer sense of apprehension. What was under, he knew, would be no pretty sight. The wooden floor creaked under his feet. With palpable relief, he managed to open the cupboard doors without the usual noise. He took in the grim tangle of plastic bags, cleaning products, and boxes. In the middle lay the rubbish bag, packed, overfilled with trash. The risk of spilling much of it during the operation would be real. He observed, his mind racing through calculations and angles. The milk carton, the stack of eggshells…. He had learned the hard way that precision was key. Any wrong move and in no time he’d be picking gooey stuff from the floor. This was no joke.

As soon as he grabbed the rubbish bag, he knew something was off. Deep in the bag's gut, an unknown object was blocking the extraction. This could lead to a worst-case scenario with an FTC (Full-Trash Collapse). Memories of scenes he had longed to forget flashed through his mind. Some things really should remain in the past.

Not here, not now, he thought, and felt the anger race through him. He used this to push the fear down and started pivoting the bag in small nudges. When the gaping wound appeared, his blood turned to ice. The damage was profound, but by a sheer stroke of luck, the bag still held. For how long though?

He dared not breathe. A hard pull, a quick turn, and he managed to flip the bag at an impossible angle, keeping the gash upwards. By now, he could see its insides, and it wasn’t pretty. He quickly strode through the dim corridors, knowing full well that it would be littered with kids’ toys. A small plastic car almost ended his run, but years of practice allowed him to slide on it rather than fall.

Opening the front door of the flat without cursing and waking everyone up proved trickier than expected, but a combination of balance and grit cleared the way.

With laser-sharp focus, he ran down the spiralling stairs leading to the main hall. He was so close now, the smell emanating from the bin-bag against his chest was weirdly comforting; like an avant-goût of what was to come. Finally, the entry door of the building appeared, offering an agate glimpse of the outside world. A few more steps and the bins would be in view. His target. His goal. A deep shadow sliced through the grey light and before he knew it, the door opened, revealing an old lady. She had a revolting little dog on a leash, and it was already growling.

“Hello," she said as she stood between him and the door. For a fleeting moment, she looked like one of those gargoyles adorning his local church. He stayed perfectly still, knowing that anything he’d do at this point could trigger things. Bad things.

If she thought he hadn’t noticed her glance towards his bin-bag, she was making a big mistake. The ratty creature at her feet was uttering high-pitched little yaps. It made the impulse to put a boot through it hard to resist. But flashbacks of cold nights spent in police cells were enough to disperse the temptation. Instead, he just smiled, making sure to display all of his teeth. As expected, this drove the animal to a slavering frenzy and the woman got wary. And angry. A dangerous combination.

Luckily, it seemed that she had decided this fight wasn’t worth it, and she limped off, dragging her dog along. “Have a nice day,” she said, through clenched teeth.

“And you,” he said, in a voice devoid of emotion. He couldn’t afford mistakes, not now, not after everything.

He waited for them to be well out of sight before exiting the building. The air outside was thin and brisk, but apart from dead leaves and the distant rumble of cars, the street was quiet.

He strode to the rubbish bins. Nothing could stop him now, and he experienced the profound and unique thrill of the hard job well done. Inside the bin, he found a spot for his rubbish bag. Just the right size and shape, as if it had been made for him. He lay the bag down gently, like a new-born in a crib. It was time to say goodbye.

He stepped back and lit a cigarette, observing the foggy city waking up from its slumber. He thought of all the unsung heroes, just like him, who would soon be facing up to similar missions, slippery toys, hazardous wives, and tricky neighbours.

How he loved the damn job sometimes. It felt good to be alive.