I’ve been around for a while now. I’ve been employed by various agents to do various things for profit. I’ve bought and sold on the market for profit. I’ve killed others simply to take what was theirs and make it my own, for profit. I’ve even tried smuggling illegal goods across the various borders of the four races, for profit.

Are you sensing a theme here? To survive, you must profit. And I’ve done well so far at both.

Then I got to talking to Sam the other day. Sam’s been around a lot longer than I have, yet he doesn’t do any of the things I’ve listed above. Ironically, his accounts are far more well padded than my own. This begets the question “How?”.

Sam is a garbage hauler. 

I know you’re already going “WTF?!”, as did I. But apparently it’s one of the lesser known ways of making hundreds of millions of ISK for little effort. 

Being the curious sort, and one who enjoys huge rewards for little risk, I insisted he take me with him on his garbage run, and he did.

I was very excited. I figured I didn’t want to involve my crew in this until I saw it with my own eyes, so I booted up my Republic Fleet Firetail, the Renegade. I won’t bore you with the pre-flight inspection and startup sequence details today, as I really want to talk about the garbage!

Sam and I rendezvoused just outside of a station that will remain nameless in this story. He was in a massive hauler, completely dwarfing my little frigate. I have never flown a hauler; to be honest I’ve never had an interest in one. I don’t mine. I don’t transport corporation assets en masse. I’ve never done whatever else people might use haulers for. I’ve never had a need for that much cargo space. 

“Alright, you ready, you arrogant sod?” the incoming transmission stated. “Sure am, bud. You wearing your flannels or the ones with the pink bunny slippers built in?” We both laughed at our banter, knowing each other far too well as to let these jabs pierce our skin.

I angled my small and far more maneuverable ship towards his, extending the docking tube once we were in parallel rotation and velocity. The resounding thud of the tube locking into place, followed by the hiss of pressurization and oxygen flow let me know it was time to go.

After extracting myself from my pod, and wiping clean of as much goo as possible, I made my way to the egress hatch. I hit the release panel, crossing to the far end of the tube, closing and locking the hatch behind me. 

I let Sam know I was ready at his end, and he remotely unlocked the portal. 

Let me tell you some blunt truths at this junction in time. We all shit. We all fart. We all have body odour. We’ve all smelled sewer gas. We’ve all smelled rotten food. We’ve all experienced some pretty nasty olefactory input. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing, can describe the potency of the stench that assailed me when that entry portal opened its iris to let me in. My gag reflex instantly kicked in. My eyes began to burn, tears streaming down my face involuntarily. And it wasn’t just the overwhelming stench alone. The smell seemed to have some kind of heat to it. It was all I could do to not puke then and there, though I did dry heave several times.

“What?” I heard from in front of me. Standing there, eyes alight with joy at my discomfort, stood Sam. I say his eyes were alight with joy because I couldn’t see the ear to ear grin I knew was there under the breathing apparatus. He handed me a rig of my own, which I scrambled desperately to get in place in record time. 

“You’re an arse you know.” I said to him once I was breathing clean filtered air. He chuckled, then turned and walked away, waving me to follow. 

We didn’t go far, stopping at a railing that overlooked the main cargo hold. He spread his arms wide for effect. 

“There it is, Roc. 200,000 metric tons of garbage.” Really I wish I could describe it to you. I have never in my life even imagined such a putrid treasure. It was beyond mountainous. It was like a small continental island all unto itself. But, and I can’t stress that word enough, it was money in the waiting.

“You know, ” I began, a smile creeping onto my face, “It’s hard to tell it apart from the rest of your ship.” He punched me in the shoulder, and we both laughed. He led me to the bridge, where we took off our rebreathers and had a seat. 

He set the course for our delivery. It was only two systems away. Can you believe that? 

Anyway, to make a lengthening story short, we delivered the garbage to the reprocessing plant, verified funds were deposited into his account, and returned to where we started, all in under one hour. 

1 hour = 100,000,000.00 ISK

Brutors aren’t reknowned for our mathematical prowess, but even I can tell you that is PROFIT. Looks like I might have to learn myself how to fly a hauler in the near future … right after a long, hot shower with a scrub brush.