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"Trash is gold, my brother, never forget that." So said the self proclaimed King of Sanitation as we trucked along the narrow rocky road by the lake.

Danny Macon was one of those guys looking for that opportunity, buried in the dung heaps of civilization, another one of his little gems. While he was hardly a scholar, this shaggy bearded little gnome still managed to wrangle a hefty contract from at least a dozen communities around Lake Tahoe to haul garbage for them.

All alone, Danny slowly increased his holdings, money in the bank soon going toward a brand spankin new truck and an extra hand to help service the rich white folk who lazed the summer months away, casting off some pretty weird shit along the way as they did.

Oh, that extra hand? that’s me, Joey Eagle, Lakota born but mission raised, like my folks and their folks before them. Actually, my birth name was Joseph Aaron Temple, as the good padre had christened me. My mom died almost as I was born, my dad following her a short time later as he crashed his old rusty pickup into a tall pine while drunk as a skunk.

I was a ward of the State after that, spoon-fed dogma by the Church til I was set free at eighteen, just in time to run into old Danny who offered both work and a place to stay. That was three years ago, before the proverbial shit hit the fan and scattered the stench of decay across this great Anglo nation of ours ...

I have to admit, he had something going for him, this King of Crap. A service which people ridicule but everyone needs, and you get used to the smell after awhile ...

Something else the job offered, those college educated rich girls, lookin to feel good about themselves while spending daddy’s money. When not in my filthy overalls, I admit that I clean up pretty good. A nice lookin Indian boy in tight jeans and boots to help those liberal minded little girls become one with nature.

But I’m not a cynic, not really, giving as much as I got from them so no one left the sheets unsatisfied. Even as this atmosphere of unreality began on the East Coast, sending fear and a mass exodus westward, Danny helped me find my center.

If I’d been closer to my tribal roots, maybe this whole mess mighta scared me more. This thing, this waking nightmare which clawed up out of the grave and began ravaging the country, it actually proved to be a boon for our little business, Danny’s and mine. When just five months ago, the Dead unexpectedly became very animate and very hungry, those wealthy idiots extended our season indefinitely by moving out of the cities and into the country. And, as Danny said, Crap was Cash ...

Tuesday was generally trash day, but with things being what they were, we actually worked almost four straight days out of the week to just break even. Here it was, late afternoon, and we’d only covered half our route from Tahoe Pines to Lincoln Park on the westside. Triple, no, quadruple the population, as well as the businesses to maintain them, and you can see our problem.

We were just below Meeks Bay when Danny slammed the brakes for a fat lady in a far too small paisley sundress, her beehive a scary pink color designed to frighten the wild life and a couple garbage men.

"Jesus! Mrs. Weinstein! " my boss exclaimed with annoyance while I gingerly touched my goose egg, begotten from a losing argument with the windshield.

Mrs. Weinstein was a formidable customer, all two hundred and fifteen pounds of her, a great debater of workin class short-comings as well as an avid consumer of both TV soaps and expensive wine. At present, she was alone with the exception of a local girl who did the housekeeping. Her lawyer husband had stayed behind in LA to hold the practice together.

"What’s that she towin behind her, Joey? " Danny had an amused tone in his voice, the old man smirking as this huffin n puffin rich bitch dragged what looked like a giant overstuffed Hefty bag behind her. "Is that what I think it is? "

With a quick glimpse of red through the torn dark green plastic, I could only think there’d been some killin done up at her place, a good half mile from the lake road along a gravel track. But who or what did the deed, I couldn’t say.

"You ought be more careful, Mrs. Weinstein. " Danny warned, trying not to laugh out loud at her red face, all puffy and indignant. "Standin out in the road like that could get a body killed. "

She let go the lumpy awkward package, trotting over to stick her head right up to my window, giving Danny a withering glare. "There’s already been a killing, and I’m out one maid. What’s the world coming to when you pay for a service and it’s quite unsatisfactory, thank you so much ... "

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