Shackleton's Botch

Charlie fell on his ass, making a sad little splatch sound as he spattered his audience with mud. He found this hilarious.

One of his victims barked in approval. The other, the one wearing clothes and standing upright, was less amused.

“Charlie, what the devil are you doing?”

“I am burying my demons so that in a hundred years a robot or… something can dig ‘em out,” Charlie beamed.

“Oh, silly me. That makes perfect sense.”

“Yeah, no, it does. It does.” The bedraggled man grabbed his shovel and used it to haul himself back upright. “I can’t drink myself to death if they’re under the earth. Got the idea from that… that thing. The other day. Thing.”

Charlie picked up a bottle, stared at it defiantly, and then dropped it in the hole he’d dug. There was the chime of glass hitting glass.

His dog-walking acquaintance sighed. “That’s not a bad idea, Charlie. But those bottles you’re burying?”

“What about ‘em?”

“They’re all empty, Charlie.”

“Yeah.” Another went in the beverage grave. “I got thirsty.”

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