Water fights on the ramp were like Tim Hortons cups in the crew room… everywhere.
So naturally, on one gloriously uneventful shift in the Old Domestic Pit of Doom (a.k.a. the bagroom), me and Eddie decided it was time to hydrate Carl — whether he liked it or not.
Armed with the precision of two caffeinated toddlers, we rigged a cup of liquid ambush on the catwalk above Carl’s chute. Carl got a splash, shrieked like a man who’d just dropped his Timbits, and immediately spotted the source of his baptism.
Enter: Carl the Avenger.
He grabbed the nearest ice bucket — probably meant for someone’s lunch, too bad — filled it with the wrath of Poseidon, and chased us out the door like a crazed Niagara Falls lifeguard. As we fumbled to push open the 1,000-pound industrial bunker door to Spine Road (seriously, who designs these things?), Carl saw his golden opportunity.
He launched the bucket like a Canadian Olympic curling team skipping a water rock…
And missed.
But not entirely.
He nailed the main electrical panel instead.
ZAP. BOOM. SILENCE.
Just like that, the entire baggage system flatlined harder than a rerun of “Airline!”
We sheepishly reported the aquatic Armageddon to Mr. X — the only supervisor cool enough to cover up acts of tomfoolery and mild corporate sabotage.
Maintenance came in scratching their heads like monkeys at a Sudoku tournament:
“Uh… why does it smell like chlorine and bad decisions in here?”
They reset the system, shrugged, and wandered off…
Meanwhile, Carl was banned from throwing anything heavier than a coffee stir stick for the rest of the summer.
