The air was salted with the heavy scents of sweat, chemical and fish. Bright yellow waterproof suits milled to their required positions. Freshly-murdered salmon proceeded slowly through the belt system, headless and bloody.

Clad in a contrasting orange rain suit, I maneuvered through the darkened maze of machinery. I was ready. Ready to dominate, ready to succeed, ready to clean. Hard-wired from a foamy blend of swiss miss and coffee and manic from a week and half straight of getting three hours of sleep a night, I trotted to the damp floor feeling like a high school football player plunging out of a tunnel. 

Turning the corner, I approached one of the fish house walls. The instrument of my sanitation capabilities -- an overused squeegee -- hung on pegs against the dark stone. As I reached for it a voice pierced through my ear-bud protected ears.

“Someone left the top off the head grinder.”