Cross hacks at the fetid blockage with his shovel. As he works, establishing an inhuman rhythm, his mind seems to shut off. Layers and layers of filth wash over him due to his own labors and those of his companions. Their hoses dissolve the fatberg, but what is dissolved thereby covers him with more and more of the grime, now loosened and liquid. After a while, to his companions, he must look like something born of this mass of filth and waste. Every inch of him is covered with the gross detritus of human civilization.
And yet he works. And works. And works. The shovel stabbing, shearing, wrenching, tearing.
Here in this dark and foul place, the Burned Man truly looks the monster he knows deep down he is. A single thought surfaces before dissolving again in a mind given over to the blankness of an infernal, seemingly endless, labor: Good.
5 successes
But then, suddenly, something seems different. Some change in the fatberg's consistency or disposition. Cross steps back, a piece of the grotesque accumulation detaching itself, vaguely humanoid in shape.
21 suxx achieved!