Storytime

By u/_Neoshade_, its a terrifying write-up of Blue Hole, a 120-metre-deep sinkhole, five miles north of Dahab, Egypt nicknamed “divers’ cemetery”.

Not necessarily. Many certified scuba divers think they are capable of just going a little deeper, but they don’t know that there are special gas mixtures, buoyancy equipment and training required for just another few meters of depth.Imagine this: you take your PADI open water diving course and you learn your dive charts, buy all your own gear and become familiar with it. Compared to the average person on the street, you’re an expert now. You go diving on coral reefs, a few shipwrecks and even catch lobster in New England. You go to visit a deep spot like this and you’re having a great time. You see something just in front of you - this beautiful cave with sunlight streaming through - and you decide to swim just a little closer. You’re not going to go inside it, you know better than that, but you just want a closer look. If your dive computer starts beeping, you’ll head back up.So you swim a little closer and it’s breathtaking. You are enjoying the view and just floating there taking it all in. You hear a clanging sound - it’s your dive master rapping the butt of his knife on his tank to get someone’s attention. You look up to see what he wants, but after staring into the darkness for the last minute, the sunlight streaming down is blinding. You turn away and reach to check your dive computer, but it’s a little awkward for some reason, and you twist your shoulder and pull it towards you. It’s beeping and the screen is flashing GO UP. You stare at it for a few seconds, trying to make out the depth and tank level between the flashing words. The numbers won’t stay still. It’s really annoying, and your brain isn’t getting the info you want at a glance. So you let it fall back to your left shoulder, turn towards the light and head up.
The problem is that the blue hole is bigger than anything you’ve ever dove before, and the crystal clear water provides a visibility that is 10x what you’re used to in the dark waters of the St Lawrence where you usually dive. What you don’t realize is that when you swam down a little farther to get a closer look, thinking it was just 30 or 40 feet more, you actually swam almost twice that because the vast scale of things messed up your sense of distance. And while you were looking at the archway you didn’t have any nearby reference point in your vision. More depth = more pressure, and your BCD, the air-filled jacket that you use to control your buoyancy, was compressed a little. You were slowly sinking and had no idea. That’s when the dive master began banging his tank and you looked up. This only served to blind you for a moment and distract your sense of motion and position even more. Your dive computer wasn’t sticking out on your chest below your shoulder when you reached for it because your BCD was shrinking. You turned your body sideways while twisting and reaching for it. The ten seconds spent fumbling for it and staring at the screen brought you deeper and you began to accelerate with your jacket continuing to shrink. The reason that you didn’t hear the beeping at first and that it took so long to make out the depth between the flashing words was the nitrogen narcosis. You have been getting depth drunk. And the numbers wouldn’t stay still because you are still sinking*.*
You swim towards the light but the current is pulling you sideways. Your brain is hurting, straining for no reason, and the blue hole seems like it’s gotten narrower, and the light rays above you are going at a funny angle. You kick harder just keep going up, toward the light, despite this damn current that wants to push you into the wall. Your computer is beeping incessantly and it feels like you’re swimming through mud. Fuck this, you grab the fill button on your jacket and squeeze it. You’re not supposed to use your jacket to ascend, as you know that it will expand as the pressure drops and you will need to carefully bleed off air to avoid shooting up to the surface, but you don’t care about that anymore. Shooting up to the surface is exactly what you want right now, and you’ll deal with bleeding air off and making depth stops when you’re back up with the rest of your group.The sound of air rushing into your BCD fills your ears, but nothing’s happening. Something doesn’t sound right, like the air isn’t filling fast enough. You look down at your jacket, searching for whatever the trouble might be when FWUNK you bump right into the side of the giant sinkhole. What the hell?? Why is the current pulling me sideways? Why is there even a current in an empty hole in the middle of the ocean??You keep holding the button. INFLATE! GODDAM IT INFLATE!!
Your computer is now making a frantic screeching sound that you’ve never heard before. You notice that you’ve been breathing heavily - it’s a sign of stress - and the sound of air rushing into your jacket is getting weaker.
Every 10m of water adds another 1 atmosphere of pressure. Your tank has enough air for you to spend an hour at 10m (2atm) and to refill your BCD more than a hundred times. Each additional 20m of depth cuts this time in half. This assumes that you are calm, controlling your breathing, and using your muscles slowly with intention. If you panic, begin breathing quickly and move rapidly, this cuts your time in half again. You’re certified to 20m, and you’ve gone briefly down to 30m on some shipwrecks before. So you were comfortable swimming to 25m to look at the arch. While you were looking at it, you sank to 40m, and while you messed around looking for your dive master and then the computer, you sank to 60m. 6 atmospheres of pressure. You have only 10 minutes of air at this depth. When you swam for the surface, you had become disoriented from twisting around and then looking at your gear and you were now right in front of the archway. You swam into the archway thinking it was the surface, that’s why the Blue Hole looked smaller now. There is no current pulling you sideways, you are continuing to sink to to bottom of the arch. When you hit the bottom and started to inflate your BCD, you were now over 90m. You will go through a full tank of air in only a couple of minutes at this depth. Panicking like this, you’re down to seconds. There’s enough air to inflate your BCD, but it will take over a minute to fill, and it doesn’t matter, because that would only pull you into to the top of the arch, and you will drown before you get there.
Holding the inflate button you kick as hard as you can for the light. Your muscles are screaming, your brain is screaming, and it’s getting harder and harder to suck each panicked breath out of your regulator. In a final fit of rage and frustration you scream into your useless reg, darkness squeezing into the corners of your vision.
4 minutes. That’s how long your dive lasted. You died in clear water on a sunny day in only 4 minutes.

Intro and better formatting

The Blue Hole is a 100-meter-deep sinkhole on the coast of the Red Sea, five miles north of Dahab, Egypt. Its nickname is the “divers’ cemetery”. Divers in Dahab say 200 died in recent years. Many of those who died were attempting to swim under the arch...

Many certified scuba divers think they are capable of just going a little deeper, but they don’t know that there are special gas mixtures, buoyancy equipment and training required for just another few meters of depth.

Imagine this: you take your PADI open water diving course and you learn your dive charts, buy all your own gear and become familiar with it. Compared to the average person on the street, you’re an expert now. You go diving on coral reefs, a few shipwrecks and even catch lobster in New England. You go to visit a deep spot like this and you’re having a great time. You see something just in front of you - this beautiful cave with sunlight streaming through - and you decide to swim just a little closer. You’re not going to go inside it, you know better than that, but you just want a closer look. If your dive computer starts beeping, you’ll head back up.

So you swim a little closer and it’s breathtaking. You are enjoying the view and just floating there taking it all in. You hear a clanging sound - it’s your dive master rapping the butt of his knife on his tank to get someone’s attention. You look up to see what he wants, but after staring into the darkness for the last minute, the sunlight streaming down is blinding. You turn away and reach to check your dive computer, but it’s a little awkward for some reason, and you twist your shoulder and pull it towards you. It’s beeping and the screen is flashing GO UP. You stare at it for a few seconds, trying to make out the depth and tank level between the flashing words. The numbers won’t stay still. It’s really annoying, and your brain isn’t getting the info you want at a glance. So you let it fall back to your left shoulder, turn towards the light and head up.

The problem is that the blue hole is bigger than anything you’ve ever dove before, and the crystal clear water provides a visibility that is 10x what you’re used to in the dark waters of St Lawrence where you usually dive. What you don’t realize is that when you swam down a little farther to get a closer look, thinking it was just 30 or 40 feet more, you actually swam almost twice that because the vast scale of things messed up your sense of distance. And while you were looking at the archway you didn’t have any nearby reference point in your vision. More depth = more pressure, and your BCD, the air-filled jacket that you use to control your buoyancy, was compressed a little. You were slowly sinking and had no idea. That’s when the dive master began banging his tank and you looked up. This only served to blind you for a moment and distract your sense of motion and position even more. Your dive computer wasn’t sticking out on your chest below your shoulder when you reached for it because your BCD was shrinking. You turned your body sideways while twisting and reaching for it. The ten seconds spent fumbling for it and staring at the screen brought you deeper and you began to accelerate with your jacket continuing to shrink. The reason that you didn’t hear the beeping at first and that it took so long to make out the depth between the flashing words was the nitrogen narcosis. You have been getting depth drunk. And the numbers wouldn’t stay still because you are still sinking*.*

You swim towards the light but the current is pulling you sideways. Your brain is hurting, straining for no reason, and the blue hole seems like it’s gotten narrower, and the light rays above you are going at a funny angle. You kick harder just to keep going up, toward the light, despite this damn current that wants to push you into the wall. Your computer is beeping incessantly and it feels like you’re swimming through mud. Fuck this, you grab the fill button on your jacket and squeeze it. You’re not supposed to use your jacket to ascend, as you know that it will expand as the pressure drops and you will need to carefully bleed off air to avoid shooting up to the surface, but you don’t care about that anymore. Shooting up to the surface is exactly what you want right now, and you’ll deal with bleeding air off and making depth stops when you’re back up with the rest of your group.

The sound of air rushing into your BCD fills your ears, but nothing’s happening. Something doesn’t sound right, like the air isn’t filling fast enough. You look down at your jacket, searching for whatever the trouble might be when FWUNK you bump right into the side of the giant sinkhole. What the hell?? Why is the current pulling me sideways? Why is there even a current in an empty hole in the middle of the ocean?? You keep holding the button. INFLATE! GODDAM IT INFLATE!!

Your computer is now making a frantic screeching sound that you’ve never heard before. You notice that you’ve been breathing heavily - it’s a sign of stress - and the sound of air rushing into your jacket is getting weaker.

Every 10m of water adds another 1 atmosphere of pressure. Your tank has enough air for you to spend an hour at 10m (2atm) and to refill your BCD more than a hundred times. Each additional 20m of depth cuts this time in half. This assumes that you are calm, controlling your breathing, and using your muscles slowly with intention. If you panic, begin breathing quickly and move rapidly, this cuts your time in half again. You’re certified to 20m, and you’ve gone briefly down to 30m on some shipwrecks before. So you were comfortable swimming to 25m to look at the arch. While you were looking at it, you sank to 40m, and while you messed around looking for your dive master and then the computer, you sank to 60m. 6 atmospheres of pressure. You have only 10 minutes of air at this depth. When you swam for the surface, you had become disoriented from twisting around and then looking at your gear and you were now right in front of the archway. You swam into the archway thinking it was the surface, that’s why the Blue Hole looked smaller now. There is no current pulling you sideways, you are continuing to sink to the bottom of the arch. When you hit the bottom and started to inflate your BCD, you were now over 90m. You will go through a full tank of air in only a couple of minutes at this depth. Panicking like this, you’re down to seconds. There’s enough air to inflate your BCD, but it will take over a minute to fill, and it doesn’t matter, because that would only pull you into to the top of the arch, and you will drown before you get there.

Holding the inflate button you kick as hard as you can for the light. Your muscles are screaming, your brain is screaming, and it’s getting harder and harder to suck each panicked breath out of your regulator. In a final fit of rage and frustration you scream into your useless reg, darkness squeezing into the corners of your vision.

4 minutes. That’s how long your dive lasted. You died in clear water on a sunny day in only 4 minutes. 

This is an old Polish copypasta from 2010(?) about a middle-aged guy who had to go through great lengths to save his wife’s cat that got stuck in the sewer pipe.

Posiadam. Wróć. Moja żona posiada kota, rasy kotka, rasy czarnej, rasy ze schroniska, rasy małe kocię. Guzik by mnie to obchodziło gdyby nie fakt, że jest małe, że chodzi to to bez przerwy za mną i trzeszczy - a to na ręce, a to żreć, a to trzeszczy dla samego trzeszczenia, zupełnie jak jej pani. Generalnie pogłaskać mogę, kopnąć jakąś rzecz, która leży na ziemi żeby kot za nią biegał też, niech chowa się zdrowo do czasu, aż raz zapomnę zamknąć terrarium i zajmie się nim mój wąż, reszta to nie mój problem. Ale do czasu. Staje się to moim problemem gdy moja współmałżonka udaje się w celach służbowych gdzieś tam na ileś tam. I spada na mnie karmienie, wyprowadzanie i sprzątanie po tym całym tałatajstwie. Jako że to zawsze lekko olewam i robię wszystko w ostatni dzień przed powrotem małżonki nie nastręcza mi to wiele problemów.

Kot jest od niedawna i od niedawna jest nowy zwyczaj - niezamykania łazienki, gdyż w niej znajduje się urządzenie zwane potocznie kuwetą, do którego kot robi to samo co ja w toalecie, czyli wchodzi i może spokojnie pomyśleć. Mnie jednak uczono całe życie zamykać te cholerne drzwi do łazienki za sobą, więc stale żona mi trzeszczała, że kot tam nie może wejść i „myśleć”. Ja jestem stary i się nie nauczę, poza tym mieszkam tu dłużej niż ten kot, sam dom stawiałem, moje drzwi, mój kibel, wypierdalać więc. I postawiłem na swoim. Od jakiegoś czasu kot chodzi do toalety razem ze mną. Jak nie ma małżonki to musi zazwyczaj czyhać na mnie albo miauczeć coby przypomnieć, że trzeba mu łazienkę otworzyć, bo jak jest żona to ona ma już w biosie zaprogramowane - ja wychodzę i zamykam, ona idzie i otwiera, żeby kot mógł wejść - taka technologia po prostu. Czasem kot skacze na klamkę, ale ma jeszcze zbyt małą wyporność i zwisa na niej bezradnie. Jednak jak moja żona będzie nadal go tak karmić- to w szybkim tempie będzie za każdym razem klamkę upierdalał - a wtedy wiadomo - wąż.

Dobrze więc, uporządkuję: żona - delegacja, ja - praca. Wracam, wchodzę do domu, kot przy drzwiach do łazienki skwierczy, bo jak wychodziłem to zamknąłem za sobą. Ok, kotku mnie się też chce. Idziemy razem - ja toaletka, okienko uchylam, papierosik (bo żona będzie za trzy dni - więc spokojnie wywietrzę) kotek swoje, ja przez okienko spoglądam, jest cudnie. Kotek wskakuje na kaloryfer, na parapecik i patrzymy razem przez okno. No cudnie. Kot skończył dawno, ja teraz, pet do muszli, spuszczam wodę, a ten mały skurwiel jak nie śmignie i sru za tym petem z tego parapetu i do kibla. Zakręciło nim dwa razy i kota nie ma. Nawet nie zdążył miauknąć. No ja pierdolę. Nie ni ch*ja to niemożliwe jest. Przecież nawet taki mały kot jest ku*wa za duży, żeby przejść tym syfonem. Ale słyszę tylko pizdut - oż ku*wa, no to nie mogło mi się zdawać - coś ciężkiego poszło w pion. Ku*wa, wszyscy święci w trójcy jedyny Boże, ukazali mi się przed oczami. Kot ku*wa popłynął wprost w odmęty prawego dopływu królowej polskich rzek.

Lecę ku*wa na dół do piwnicy, choć może powinienem od razu do schroniska, zanim wróci moja żona - nie ma wafla, znajdę jakiegoś małego czarnego skurwiela z białą krawatką, nie było jej kilka dni, może się nie połapie. Ale ch*j, najpierw do piwnicy - zbiegam po schodach, słucham - coś drapie w rurze, pion, kawałek płaskiej rury - miauczy - jest, ku*wa, żyje i nie poleciał do sieci miejskiej. Nawet jak teraz zdechnie to ch*j, przynajmniej będę miał jego truchło i powiem, że kojfnął z przyczyn naturalnych albo tylko lekko nienaturalnych, bo przecież mi baba nie uwierzy za ch*ja trefla, że kot sam wpadł do kibla. Ale na razie drapie i żyje.

Znalazłem taki wziernik, gdzie można zaglądnąć do tej rury i wołam. Kici, kici! Ni ch*ja, nie przyjdzie, wołam, wołam, a ten ku*wa głąb zamiast przyjść do mnie to ku*wa chce iść tam skąd przyszedł, czyli do góry w pion. Ja go wołam, a on do góry drapie. I udrapie, udrapie kilkanaście centymetrów i zjazd w dół. No pojebało i mnie, że tu stoję i jego (kota) Tak przez pół godziny. Prosiłem, wołałem, błagałem, groziłem, wabiłem żarciem i ni ch*ja, uparł się i nic tylko rurą do góry z powrotem do kibla. Za daleko, żeby włożyć rękę, grabie czy cokolwiek. Jedyna metoda - fight fire with fire - ogień zwalczaj ogniem.

Zatkałem tę rurę przy wzierniku deszczułkami, których używam na podpałkę do kominka, żeby kot nie popłynął już nigdzie dalej i z buta na górę do kibla - geberit i woda w dół - bombs gone. I bieg do piwnicy. Po drodze słyszę jak się przewala po rurach - podziałało. Wbiegam do piwnicy i ku*wa koniec świata. Nie ma moich deszczułek - no może z jedna, cała prowizoryczna tama poszła w ch*j i kota też nie słychać już. Ja pierdolę. Ku*wa, gdzie ta rura teraz idzie - coś mi świtnęło, że kanalizacja w ulicy, dom od ulicy ze 30 metrów - może nie wszystko stracone i gdzieś się zwierzak zatrzymał po drodze.

Biegnę na ulicę, jest studzienka - mam nadzieję, że to od mojego domu. Ni cholery jej nie podniosę. Ciężka jak szlag i nie ma za co chwycić. Powrót do domu i pogrzebacz od kominka, tym może uda się to podważyć. Ni cholery - najpierw ugiąłem, potem złamałem żelastwo. Myśl! Auto stoi na ulicy - mam pas do holowania, może uda się to szarpnąć. Hak, pas, wsteczny - poszło, aż zakurzyło. Po jaką cholerę takie te wieka robią ciężkie. Smród jak cholera, ale złażę tam - ciemno jak w dupie, rura jest, wygląda, że idzie od mojego domu. Latarka. Ku*wa, mam w aucie, ch*jowa, ale może starczy. Włażę po raz drugi- smród mnie już nie zabije - przywykłem po chwili. Zaglądam i jest, oczyska mu się tylko świecą. I znów ta sama bajka. Kici, kici, kici, a ten mały skurczybyk spierdziela w drugą stronę. No ja pierdolę. Szlag mnie trafi. Długo tu nie wysiedzę, jest zimno, śmierdzi, a na dodatek ktoś mi zwali tę pokrywę na łeb i moje problemy się skończą jak nic. Nie chcesz po dobroci, to będzie po złości.

Do domu, po brezent. Wyłożyłem dno studzienki, tak by mi nie wpadł głębiej. Zużyłem wszystkie taśmy samoprzylepne, plastry, żeby nie wpadł do głównej nitki kanalizacyjnej. Zaglądam co chwilę do rury, ale słyszę tylko miauczenie i nic nie widzę. Poszedł gdzieś w pizdu. Jeszcze tylko trójkąt, żeby nikt się w tę otwartą studzienkę nie wpierdolił, bo na ulicy ciemno. Sąsiad, ku*wa, ciekawski, widziałem żłoba jak patrzył przez okno, jak próbowałem pogrzebaczem podnieść wieko. Nie przyszedł pomóc, a teraz ch*j złamany stoi i się dopytuje. Co mam mu ku*wa powiedzieć? Że przepycham kotem kanalizację? Idźżesz w ch*j, pacanie.
Powiedziałem mu w końcu, żeby poszedł do domu i pozatykał sobie też wszystkie otwory, bo na początku osiedla była awaria i wszystkie ścieki się wracają i wybijają w domach - a ten baran się przestraszył, poleciał i przed swoim domem siłuje się z pokrywą. Niech ma za swoje.

Wracając do kota - bo menda tam siedzi i nie chce wyjść. Mam wszystko gotowe, więc do domu, jedna wanna, druga wanna, koreczek i napuszczam wodę. Papierosik i czekam pod studzienką, bo nuż mu się zmieni i wyjdzie dobrowolnie. Ku*wa, drugi sąsiad przyszedł - po pięciu minutach następny odmyka wieko, teoria samospełniającej się przepowiedni działa - ku*wa, ludzie to są barany. Idę do domu, obie wanny pełne, ognia - spuszczam wodę z wanien i dokładam dwa spusty z dwóch spłuczek z domu. Nie ma ch*ja, to go musi wygonić albo utopić.

Lecę na ulicę, woda wali na brezent aż huczy, a tego skurwiela dalej nie wylało z kąpielą. Ku*wa mać, urwało się wszystko w pizdu i popłynęło, bo ileż to utrzyma tej wody. Brezent, taśmy, plastry, sznurki - w ch*j - jak się to gdzieś przytka, to będę miał przejebane. Znowu do domu po drugi pogrzebacz, bo trzeba zamknąć ten pierdolony dekiel. Wchodzę - a ten skurwiel kot tarza się w sypialni po łóżku. No ja pierdolę! Jak on ku*wa wyszedł, którędy? Ano ku*wa wziernikiem w piwnicy - zostawiłem otwarty. Ja ku*wa stoję i marznę a ten gnój tarza się w mojej pościeli. Zajebię. Przerobię na pasztet. I jeszcze z radości włazi na mnie. Ku*wa mać. Przynajmniej kuleje.

Straty: zajebane łazienki, w obu przelała się woda z wanien, zajebana piwnica, bo zostawiłem otwarty wziernik i duża część wody poleciała na piwnicę. Pościel w sypialni do wyjebania, brezent z reklamą firmy - poszedł w ch*j, latarka - w ch*j, pogrzebacz w ch*j. Afera na ulicy jak ch*j.

English version

Credits to u/luigi0pl for doing the translation. Here are a couple of footnotes:
A few things don’t translate cleanly, but the spirit should remain intact.

• The cat “creaks” instead of meows because the Polish verb trzeszczy is genuinely weird and doing a joke
• The “breed:” repetition – applied bureaucratically to non-breeds. The joke is the form, not the content
• “Queen of Polish rivers” is a stock textbook phrase Polish kids learn for the Vistula.
• “I could draw her a diagram and she still wouldn’t [believe me]” is an invented English phrase standing in for “za chuja trefla” — an absurd card-suit vulgarity that’s basically untranslatable.

Cat in the pipe

I own. Scratch that. My wife owns a cat. Breed: kitten, breed: black, breed: from-the-shelter, breed: tiny little baby cat thing. I wouldn't give a single shit about it if not for the fact that it's small, that the thing follows me around non-stop and creaks at me. Creaks to be picked up, creaks to be fed, creaks just for the sake of creaking, exactly like its lady owner. In general I'm fine, I can pet it, I can kick something on the floor for the cat to chase, may it grow up big and strong, until the day I forget to close the terrarium and my snake takes care of it; the rest isn't my problem. But only up to a point. It becomes my problem when my better half goes on a business trip somewhere for however long. And the feeding, the walking, and cleaning up after the whole riff-raff falls on me. Since I always kind of half-ass it and do everything on the last day before the wife comes back, it doesn't really cause me much trouble.

The cat's a recent addition, and so is a new custom: not closing the bathroom door, because in there sits a device colloquially known as a litter box, in which the cat does the same thing I do in the toilet, i.e. enters and can think in peace. But me, I've been taught my whole life to close those damn bathroom doors behind me, so the wife was constantly creaking at me that the cat can't get in there to "think." I'm old and I won't learn, plus I've lived here longer than this cat, I built the house myself, my doors, my crapper, so fuck off. And I won. For a while now, the cat goes to the toilet with me. When the wife's not around, the cat usually has to lie in wait for me or meow to remind me that the bathroom needs opening, because when the wife's home she's already got it programmed into her BIOS: I leave and close, she walks over and opens, so the cat can go in. That's just the tech. Sometimes the cat jumps onto the door handle, but it still doesn't have enough body mass and just dangles helplessly. Though if my wife keeps feeding it the way she does, soon enough he'll be fucking up the handle every single time in no time flat, and then: the snake.

Alright then, let me lay it out: wife - business trip, me - work. I come back, walk into the house, the cat is creaking by the bathroom door because when I left I closed it behind me. Okay, kitty, I need to go too. We go together, me on the throne, I crack the window open, light up a smoke (because the wife's not back for three days, plenty of time to air it out), kitty does his thing, I look out the window, it's glorious. Kitty hops up on the radiator, onto the window sill, and we look out together. Just glorious. Cat finished a while ago, I'm finishing now, butt into the bowl, flush the water, and this little fucker just bolts, zoom, after that cigarette butt, off the sill and into the crapper. Spun him around twice and the cat is gone. Didn't even have time to meow. Oh for fuck's sake. No, no fucking way, it's impossible. Even a small cat like that is way too damn big to fit through that siphon. But all I hear is a ker-fucking-splunk. Oh fuck, okay, I didn't imagine it, something heavy went down the pipe. Fuck, all the saints in the Holy Trinity, dear God, flashed before my eyes. The cat fucking sailed straight into the depths of the right tributary of the Vistula, queen of Polish rivers.

I fly the fuck down to the basement, though maybe I should go straight to the shelter before my wife gets back. No sweat, I'll find some little black fucker with a white bowtie, she's been gone a few days, maybe she won't figure it out. But fuck it, basement first. I run down the stairs, I listen, something's scratching in the pipe, the stack, a bit of horizontal pipe, meowing, there it is, fuck, alive and didn't get flushed into the city sewer. Even if he croaks now, whatever, at least I'll have the corpse and I can say he died of natural causes, or only slightly unnatural ones, because no fucking way the old lady believes me. I could draw her a diagram and she still wouldn't. But for now he's scratching and alive.

I found this inspection hatch where you can look into the pipe and I call out. Here kitty kitty! No fucking way, he won't come. I call and call, and this fucking moron, instead of coming to me, wants to go back the way he came, i.e. up the vertical pipe. I'm calling him and he's scratching upward. And he claws his way up, ten-something centimeters, and slides back down. So we're both losing our minds, me standing here and him (the cat). Half an hour like that. I begged, I called, I pleaded, I threatened, I lured him with food and nothing, he's set on it, just going back up the pipe to the toilet. Too far to stick a hand in, or a rake, or anything. Only one method: fight fire with fire.

I plugged the pipe at the inspection hatch with the kindling sticks I use to start the fireplace, so the cat couldn't sail off any further, and I booted it back upstairs to the toilet. Slammed the Geberit, water down, bombs gone. And I sprint to the basement. On my way I hear it rumbling through the pipes, it worked. I run into the basement and oh fuck, the world is ending. My kindling sticks are gone, well, maybe one left, the whole jury-rigged thing got blown to shit, and I can't hear the cat anymore either. Oh for fuck's sake. Fuck, where does this pipe go now? Something flickered in my head, the sewer main is in the street, the house is like 30 meters from the street, maybe not all is lost and the critter got stuck somewhere along the way.

I run out to the street, there's a manhole, I hope it's the one for my house. No fucking way I can lift it. Heavy as hell and nothing to grip. Back to the house, fireplace poker, maybe I can pry it up with that. Not a fucking chance, first I bent the iron, then I broke it. Think! Car's parked on the street, I've got a tow strap, maybe I can yank it. Hook, strap, reverse, it ripped open in a cloud of dust. Why the fuck do they make these covers so heavy? Stinks like hell, but I climb down, pitch black, the pipe's there, looks like it runs from my house. Flashlight. Fuck, I've got one in the car, shitty one, but it might do. I climb in for the second time, the stench won't kill me, I've gotten used to it. I peer in and there he is, only his huge glowing eyes staring back at me. And the same story again. Here kitty kitty kitty, and the little bugger bolts the other way. Oh for fuck's sake. I'm gonna lose it. I can't sit down here long, it's cold, it stinks, and on top of that some asshole might drop the cover back on my head and my problems would be over just like that. If you won't do it the nice way, we'll do it the nasty way.

Back to the house, get the tarp. I lined the bottom of the manhole so he wouldn't drop in deeper. Used up all my packing tape, duct tape, so he couldn't fall into the main sewer line. I peek into the pipe every few minutes, but I only hear meowing and can't see a damn thing. He went off somewhere into the abyss. Just need a warning triangle so nobody falls into this open manhole, because the street is dark. The neighbor, fuck, nosy rubbernecking fucker, I saw him watching through the window while I was trying to pry the cover up with the poker. Didn't come to help, and now this clueless prick is standing there asking questions. What am I supposed to fucking tell him? That I'm rodding the sewer with a cat? Fuck off, dumbass. I finally told him to go home and plug up all his openings too, because there was a breakdown at the start of the neighborhood and all the sewage is backing up and flooding into people's houses, and the dumb sheep got scared, ran off, and is now in front of his own house wrestling with his manhole cover. Serves him right.

Back to the cat, because the bastard's sitting in there and won't come out. I've got everything ready, so back into the house, bathtub one, bathtub two, plug them, run the water. A cigarette, and I wait by the manhole, just in case he changes his mind and comes out voluntarily. Fuck, second neighbor comes over, five minutes later another one's prying his lid open, self-fulfilling prophecy in action, fuck, people are sheep. I go back in the house, both tubs full, fire, I pull the plugs in both tubs and add two flushes from two toilets in the house. There's no fucking way, it's gotta either chase him out or drown him.

I run out to the street, water blasting onto the tarp loud enough to roar, and that fucker still hasn't been washed out with the bath water. Holy fuck, the whole thing tore loose and got swept away, because how much water was that going to hold. Tarp, tape, duct tape, strings, fucked, if it clogs somewhere, I'm screwed. Back to the house again for a second poker, because I need to close that fucking lid. I walk in, and that that little fucker of a cat is sprawling on the bed in the bedroom. Oh for fuck's sake! How the fuck did he get out, which way? Well, fuck, through the inspection hatch in the basement, I left it open. I'm standing here freezing my ass off and this little shit is rolling around in my sheets. I'll fucking kill him. Process him into pâté. And out of joy he clambers up on me. Fucking hell. At least he's limping.

Damages: bathrooms fucked, water overflowed from both tubs, basement fucked because I left the inspection hatch open and a huge amount of water poured into the basement. Bedding in the bedroom - fucked. Tarp with the company logo on it - fucked. Flashlight - fucked. Poker - fucked. Spectacle on the street - fucking massive.