What smell will you never forget?

Instinctively, I throw my hands out in front of me and slide, well, straight into the corpse, up to my elbows.

I heard a little girl screaming, but never did figure out where she was or why she was screaming….

I see the guys knock. Knock, again. REALLY knock a third time. They try the door, it’s open. I watch them swing it wide and take a step back, back of their hands raised, placed against the underside of their noses… the universal DAMN THAT STINKS position. I perk up.

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Me to the rescue! Bad-assed Marine for the save!

My pals thought it was hilarious. I spent the rest of the day, after being attended to, sterilized, bandaged up from the many nicks and scrapes I received (most from maniacally tearing my arms OUT of the corpse) and tamping down the desire to murder.

All kinds of crunch noises and squishy grossness.

My boss called me on a Saturday to let me know he that due to financial reasons, I was no longer needed effective immediatley. 3 days later, he sends me a text asking about work issues. How do I respond?

“GARY GET IN HERE!” one of them screams!

That’s a smell you never forget.

Looked around, decided to stay for a bit. Got a job as an Associate Editor on a weekly, The Dunnellon Times. So, hard charger that I am, was doing as many stories as possible on many varied subjects; including First Responders. So, riding along with an EMT team.

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Get a call to a remote location for a Wellness Check. Old mobile home. The guys head in. I’m leaning against the squad, watching. No excitement here. Camera hanging around my neck.

They enter. I take a few steps away from the squad, in the direction of the door. Can’t see inside from my angle. About 30 seconds goes by. I’m starting to relax.

Typing this, my brain dredged up that smell…

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I’m a young Marine just finished his first enlistment and thought I’d try civilian life. Ended up, after 6 months, headed to Flori-DUH to put my former fiance on the QE2 for England.

I cover the distance, wondering what they could have encountered where they’d need me, the Walking Death Machine, to intervene? I leap over the stairs and my left foot hits the carpet inside the door and… slips out from under me! I nearly go face-first over my own leg and I’m sliding across the carpet, which is soaked through with… well, the ‘wet’ parts of the deceased older lady that’s lying about 6′ inside the door, at the base of a ratty old couch.