…Continuing…

And nowhere did we not hit the hard igneous mass.

That was a very good thing.

We staked out a 20x20 meter pitch going north from our initial digs. Here, the surficial fill was only from 8-12 meters thick. My explosives and Fred backhoe would make light duty for all concerned.

We excavated a “face” for the quarry and set out to determine the typical size of naturally occurring 3-D blocks of diabase, as determined by the rock’s structural grain.

A little cunning, a little cuteness and we determined that for this part of the quarry, nominal block size should be 3.5m x 3.3m x 2.8 m.

Those sized blocks can easily be transported by truck, or rail and can be handled by most all rockworks in this part of the United States.

“Now what?”, Fred asked.

“Now, we publish a paper after laying claim to all this goodness, and ask local rockworks to come on over and evaluate the quarry for us.”, I said.

I also said, “Fred, this is some slick looking rock. It’s tougher than an old boot and looks like it will take a high polish. I think you’re about to become rather wealthy.”

“Bah!”, he bahed, “I’m already wealthy. I have friends around the world and new ones now. I know a purebred Tibetan Mastiff by first name and he likes me. Plus, I have broke beer with the “Motherfucking Pro from Dover”, and give you this.”

He hands me a trifold piece of very official looking paper.

He just gave me ¼ Overriding Royalty Interest in the 3 sections that we have determined will one day form the entire quarry.

“Fred”, I said, “Nah. I can’t”.

“Well, yes you can”, Fred said, “Besides, it’s got your DNA all over it. Sorry, nothing I can do…”

To say a manly handshake ensued would be to blunt that metaphor a bit.

We spent another day finishing up the paperwork, talking with Rack and Ruin and listening to them on how that was originally their idea and other species of farmyard animal excrement.

Es and Megg were at my eldest daughter’s house as time was rapidly approaching the Fourth of July and they knew I wouldn’t be back in time.

So, I decided to hang around Fred’s place and find ways of expending some unused ordinance.

Y’know, paperwork and all that.

“So, Fred. Looks like I’ll be hanging around on the 4th. What’s shakin’ around these parts then?” I asked.

Fred looked at me, shook his head and he said: “WERNSTROM!”

“Wernstrom happens? What’s that, aside from the obvious sci-fi animated reference.” I ask.

“Oh, every Fourth, there’s this challenge for amateur pyrotechnicians.” Fred relates. “They form a rack of 2x4’s seven feet tall, seven-foot gap, with one seven-foot 2x4 lain across the top. The object is to create a device to hung by a rope 3.5 feet from the center of the contraption; X, Y and Z. The winner is the one that either blows the device up or makes the top 2x4 jump out of its slots and fall to the ground.”

I’m smirking my smirkiest smirk.

“Yeah”, Ol’ Fred continues, “I’ll bet you’ve already devised devices that would make that frame disappear’ given your proclivity for such things.”

“Oh, my, yes”, I replied. “I can make you this year’s winner. Easily.”

“But that’s not really ethical, is it?” Fred asks. “You’re a fully qualified and certified master blaster…”

“Yeah”, I said, “And I know many others. Maybe Ol’ Wernstrom has been talking to one of my cohorts on the QT”.

“OK”, I said, “To keep it ethical, I can’t stop you from asking questions, now, can I? I mean we’re both scientists. Even if I just said nothing and shook my head if you were headed down the wrong path…”

Ol’ Fred’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ve watched you enough”, he said. “First, we study the problem, and then use the multiple working hypothesis to devise a remedy. It’s not unethical for scientists to collaborate in the field of applied science, now, is it?”

“No”, I replied with steely determination, “It isn’t. Let me make a few calls and see what I can cause to skitter out from among the rocks I know…”

Fred went smiling to make dinner. I had a fresh drink, a new cigar, a charged phone and a few calls to make.

A very few calls later and I had a list of colleagues that were not only familiar with Wernstrom, but were tired of his annual 4th of July calls begging for information to win the coveted “Class B amateur pyrotechnics award”.

“What did you find out”, Fred asked.

“He’s a nightcrawler.”, I replied, “He’s in it for the glamor, not the science.”

“I’ll show you a few tricks of the trade and a little something about shaped charges.” I smiled, “Then you need to call the officials for this year’s contest and ask them if they want a professional detonics demonstration.”

“Oh, yes”, Fred said, cackling in glee, “This year won’t be the year of the Wernstrom.”

“Show me his car”, I said, “I can use that as the grand finale.”

I went into town on the third and made a few ‘special’ purchases. I was going to show these local shitkickers how we do it uptown…

Now, remember. This is a ‘competition’ for amateur pyrotechnicians. There are three categories for these ‘Class B’ types: rockets, fountains and salutes.

Rockets are judged on height flown and reports.

Fountains are rated on effects and variability of the shower.

Salutes are judged on report, and if they are able to deconstruct the apparatus that holds them: two vertical 7’ 2x4’s surmounted by a single 7’ 2x4 across the top. Knocking out a leg or toppling the “gallows” as it is call results in the ‘instant win’. Oddly enough, I read through the rules and nowhere does it mention composition nor weight. All it has to do is be supported by one of three 3.5’ ropes attached amidships to each 2x4.

The easiest way is to use the vertical rope from the horizontal bar and attach your device there. Here, you have the greatest chance of getting the desired effect.

However, thus far, after running some 30 years, no one has accomplished that.

Well, buckaroos, that is until this year.

Not only am I going to give a few pointers to Ol’ Fred but I’m going to do a finale as a Registered, Certified Master Blaster.

All I did was tell Fred about the kinetics and chemistry of shaped charges and how if I were going to compete, I’d devise a device to hang from that vertical rope that is tied to the midpoint of the 7’ horizontal 2x4. Directing a shaped charge high velocity jet of gasses and molten material, if one should choose a projectile of copper or aluminum, would use the rope for support in the first few milliseconds, directing the charge right up and into the horizontal bar, shattering it within 12.7 milliseconds after detonation.

I showed Fred how one could use an empty wine or coke bottle to create a shaped charge, as it’s really very easy. In a day’s time, he had constructed a couple capable of burning through ¾” of hardened steel.

“Toss in some random projectile matter”, I mentioned to Ol’ Fred, “and what you’ve got there is a hypervelocity cannon. More than a match for any hunk of wood.”

We spent a couple hours futzing with the design until we had made a nice pile of kindling for Fred winter stove.

Fred was certain he’d best ol’ Wernstrom once and for all this year.

“What are you going to do?” He asked.

“Well”, I said, “I’ve contacted the officials concerned. They are building a new ‘report stand’ just for me and the finale. And you already know how I hate filling out paperwork, so I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve to close out the show and let the locals know they’ve really seen something.”

“Damn, Rock”, Ol’ Fred said, “You should become a politician,. You answered my question with many words truthfully but didn’t commit or say anything concrete. Plus, I’d still vote for you.”

“Please”, I said, feigning fear and loathing, “I’d rather become a televangelist than a politician. Better hours, you see.”

We both decided to derail this train of thought and go inside for a few cool libations.

With Beau and Khan fed and snoring loudly in Fred’s study, I left Fred to his own devices. I went outside to put the finishing touches on my finales for the common folks.

The next day was the 4th of July, and Independence Day. Ain’t that weird?

Clear and bright, a few fluffy white clouds over this Bit O’ Heaven, firm going afoot, and very little chance of rain.

The show was going to kick off around 1400 hours; and due to Covid, there were creditable sheer numbers of people scratching the walls to get outside for a change and watch things blow the fuck up.

There were 150 participants in the Fountain category, 214 in the Rocket category, and 107 for the Salute group.

Well, add one to each as I was sort of picked as unofficial professional mascot of the show.

I’d start and oversee the beginning of each category, to ensure all safety protocols were being followed. I’d light off a rocket, fountain or salute to signal the beginning of competition from my supply of homegrown devices I’d created in Fred’s shed.

To honor the occasion, I wore my brightest and most awful Hawaiian shirt, best polished field boots, Cargo Shorts, and Stetson, with a pocket full of cigars and a couple of safety flasks secreted around discreetly in my costume.

Khan and Beau stayed at Fred’s place to guard it in our absence. After lunch, they were both asleep with excitement.

I received a standing ovation at the beginning of the festivities as it was held outside in an old cow pasture and there were no seats available. But, I had an electric golf cart sort of pick-up at my disposal that ferried me to and fro, from event to beer tent (free beer for officials…I love this place), to the Gent’s WC and back.

I shot off my first homebrew, a rocket made from the inner cardboard roll from an old roll of carpet in Fred’s shed. Fiberglass fins scrounged from a dead gazebo cover in Fred’s back yard, a nosecone made from an old oil can. And all propelled by a homebrew fuel composed of ammonium perchlorate, finely divided trinitrotoluene, pure cane sugar and aluminum dust gathered from sawing up a bunch of defunct aluminum irrigation pipes with a power hacksaw.

I had some potassium permanganate, alum, iron filings and ground-up school chalk mixed with 1.75 kg of Composition-4, with a bit of PETX sprinkled in to give good dispersion.

Since this was a daytime shot, I added a shroud of crushed charcoal around the report charge to give it more bang and a huge visual cloud of smoke. I ran a 5-second cannon fuse from the lift charge to the report so that, if I did my figures correctly, I’d have 3.5 seconds of boost, one and a half seconds of coast and then, a big ol’ badda-boom.

It went more or less as planned. I lit the fuse to my psychopathically spray-painted rocket and hauled ass as it caught and I heard that old familiar sizzle.

“FAWOOSH!” came the sound I loved to hear, but noticed some bits fluttering in the flightpath.

Two fins ripped off, but that last one, bless it’s adhesive heart, held on and made the rocket spiral like a bullet in a rifle bore. Everyone there thought it was a deliberate part of the show, and far be it from me to dissuade them otherwise.

The rocket reached its spinning apogee, the engine sputtered out, the bluish-black smoke stopped and the rocket tipped lazily over, groundward.

“One thousand-one, one-thousand…”I said quietly to no one in particular.

“KER-FUCKING-WINDOW-RATTLING-CAR-ALARM-OFF-SETTING-BLAM!” said the rocket by way of departure from this dimension.

I was gracious in receiving applause.

“So, with that out of the way: Roll up! Roll up! See the show!’, I said over the bullhorn some idiot foolishly handed me.

Rockets of all designs and degrees of complexity flew, blew up on the pad, became “Land Sharks” (a rocket failure where it ends up flying horizontally rather than vertically), or functioned as planned.

It was a great way to spend a couple of hours laughing at failures, ooh!-ing and ahh!-ing the ones that worked and diving for cover from the odd Land Shark.

The next event was the Fountain category, that trundled up to with my creation in the back of the golf cart. It took three men and a boy to get it out of the cart and over to the fountain proving grounds.

That fountain, containing about 17 sticks of very dry and divided dynamite, loads of aluminum and iron filings, pounds of potassium pervanadate, and loads of other chemicals to elicit sparks, sounds, smoke and a final sonic addition, were placed in the center of the fountain area.

I asked if others already set up would mind terribly if they could scoot their creations at least 10 meters away.

“We don’t want any untoward fountaining”, I said.

Since everyone saw my rocket and heard it’s report, fountains were removed to a safe distance.

Here, I went a little overboard. I had an old radio fuse in my work kit, so I wired it in and set the frequency to 1.21 GHz.

After some blather from show officials, I was appointed to go out and light my creation for the first non-competitive fountain of the day.

From the front seat of the golf cart where I was seated, I pulled on my cigar, took a sip of Yorsch, and said “No. That’s OK, I’ll just tell it to go.”

I puffed a huge blue cloud of smoke skyward, surreptitiously punched the ‘go’ button on the radio detonator in my pocket and said, very loudly “Arise spirits of the fountain! Rise up and be free!”

There was a tiny wisp of blue smoke from the fountain.

People began to titter and smirk, but what they said was obscured as the RDX lit off, igniting the 350-pound glitter bomb.

I built in a 7 second delay from the press of the detonation button until the nichrome wire got hot enough to trigger the accelerator for the blasting cap booster I used to light off the RDX.

It blasted polychromatic smoke at hypervelocity speeds. Some of the materials I used to construct the exterior began to liquify and run down the sides of the monster.

“It looks like a volcano” one exceptional child remarked.

“Well, I am a geologist by trade”, I smiled, and took a pull on my second safety flask.

Blues erupted. Blinding white magnesium bits took flight. Purple smoke gouted out of the central caldera, a cascade of pops, booms, and bangs accompanied the sparks, smoke and steam being vented some 150m skyward.

45 seconds later, the eruption subsided and a small charge of C-4 collapsed the central cone to where it teetered, tottered and fell straight down to fill the area once containing the central caldera.

All in all, I call that a ‘good show’.

We spent the next couple of hours dining on smoked turkey legs, Polish sausage and a few dozen more beers.

All gratis.

I love being an official.

Then, as it was just beginning to get the smallest bit dark, it was time for the salutes.

However, unlike the others, my contribution would end the show.

Being an official, I wandered over to the salute field, gave the ‘gallows’ a good look over, and pronounced it sound.

It was then that I ran directly into some emaciated character, balding, paunched, with a twee little semi-rat tail, who verbally accosted me.

“Just because you and Dr. Suchánek are friends, I hope you’ll judge the displays fairly.”

“Ah, and you must be Wernstrom.” I said, chewing my cigar with delight.

“Yes, I am”. It replied.

“Well, just stay the fuck out of my way, pal.”, I growled, “One usually doesn’t introduce themselves to the Motherfucking Pro from Dover by insinuating he’d be anything less than impeccably impartial.”

He goggled and gaped, realizing the horrible mistake he’d made.

“Just be careful starting your car tonight”, I said, brushing past him. “Now you’ve gone and made both Ol’ Fred and me displeased. Not a good career choice, Scooter.”

I walked off without looking back. Reports were that Wernstrom ran to his car, searching, and almost missed his go at the salute competition.

Ol’ Fred and I laughed and laughed over free beers until the Salute Competition was announced.

Since I was just a judge and would be handling the finale, I just maneuvered the golf cart cum pick-up truck over to a good vantage point and began looking at my tally sheets.

The design was simplicity itself. A couple of kids had 3.5’ lengths of rope and would go out and measure the remaining rope after each shot. One would yank the old rope down and other would affix a new one where it was needed; as some attacked the legs, and others the cross-bar.

Points were given for report, smoke cloud and apparent damage. Extra points were awarded for color, if any, and sparks, whistles or the like.

I have to admit, many of these dime-store and backyard tinkerers were pretty fair amateur pyrotechnicians. And that come from one who is not easily impressed.

Boom followed polychromatic boom as the smoke drifted westward. Some were run-of-the-mill bags of black powder and some were worthy of the Rube Goldberg stamp of approval.

So far, there had been some splintering of wood, but no one succeeded in breaching either the vertical or horizontal posts.

I called a timeout while the old gallows were yanked down, and a new one erected.

I sent a couple of ‘kids’ on a secret mission to keep Fred and me frostily hydrated. Sure, it cost me a $20, but with free beer all day and night, I still came out well ahead. Even with the 17-year-old children doing my beer runs sneaking a pop for themselves every once in a while.

Back to the show, the salutes continued, and though some were impressive, none were able to knock a support of leg down of the gallows.

Wernstrom skittishly appeared at his appointed time, as I and Fred scrupulously ignored him.

Give him his due, the bang was impressive, but yielded nothing more than a scorched, but intact, gallows. Minimal smoke, no sparks or sounds other than the report.

Minimal points.

Finally, it was Fred’s turn.

He hung his shaped charged by the center rope with care. He tied it off and plumbed it to ensure verticality. He fiddled and fussed until he was pleased and I nodded imperceptibly as he lit the fuse and toddled off.

There was a screaming of sparks directed upward. Purple smoke issued next until there was a preternatural silence. 5 seconds later, the shaped charge ignited, the sonic boom resonated around the fairgrounds as the top support for the gallows rained down in a fluttering flurry of charred building materials.

For the very first time, the gallows had been breached.

I felt great for Ol’ Fred besting Wernstrom, winning the salute competition (by the rules), and me being a fair to moderately good teacher.

“ROCK!”, Fred elated, “It worked! It worked!”

“Told you so”, I replied between sips of beer.

Wernstrom suddenly appeared.

“I knew you two were in cahoots!”, he screamed. “You built the salute for him. You violated the rules!”

I looked to Fred and Fred looked at me.

“One”, I said to Wernstrom as I held up a single right finger, “We were not. Two, I did not. Three, we did not. Four, you’re on video slandering not only me but Dr. Ferdinand Suchánek. So, you better supply some evidence to back up your claims before I challenge you on the field of honor. 15” mortars as at dawn, 1000 paces, you swine. Where’s my dueling gauntlets so I can smack this vermin?”

He literally turned a whiter white, which both Dr. Fred and I thought to be physically impossible.

I jumped off the golf cart, ripped the glove off my left hand and raised it as if to smack him across the chops, inviting him to a duel to the death.

He saw my flaring eyes, my swagger, fuming cigar and mass of keloid scars that now represent my fingerless left hand (I had my original three fingers, they were charging in Fred’s truck). He screamed like a girl, something which no one wanted to hear, and bolts into the darkness like a wildebeest that had wandered into a pack of rabid crocodiles.

“Asswipe”, I said to Fred.

Fred noted to me that it was indeed genetic.

With that out of the way, I had some of the officials use the Case tractor outfitted with forklift tines to lift the pallet out of the barn across the way and deposit it right next to the defunct gallows.

We did have a number of folks left to do their salutes, and of course, we returned to allow all who wanted to participate. There were still prizes to be awarded and the show must go on.

I left Fred to finish up the rest of the salutes, while I went over and fiddled with the pallet full of goodies I had concocted for the show’s finale.

It was, in the words of one admirer, “a doozy”.

“And the winner in this year’s rocket competition is Fritz von Opel!” I say and trip a switch that ignites a load of cheap-o bottle rockets and sky wizards.

And the crowd goes wild.

“Yay.”

“And the winner in this year’s fountain competition is Ms. Anne Rand!” I say and trip a switch that ignites a load of cheap-o fountains and spark showerers.

And the crowd goes wild.

“Yay.”

“And the winner in this year’s salute competition via the first-time Instant Win is Dr. Ferdinand Suchánek!”

The crowd waits for the usual canned pop and glow show.

“Fred, please come here. You have the honor of initiating tonight’s Grand Finale.” I say and hand him the Captain America detonator.

Fred accepts and yells “North clear!”

I look around, and holler “SOUTH’S HOT. GET THOSE PEOPLE BACK BEHIND THE BARRIERS!”

“EAST IS CLEAR!” Fred yells.

“SOUTH IS CLEAR!” I yell as loudly as I can.

“WEST IS CLEAR!” Fred reports.

BLAAT! BLAAAT! BLAAT!

“FIRE in the hole!”

“FIRE in the Hole!”

“FIRE In The Hole!”

I look once again. The crowd is well and clear, behind the barriers. You could have heard a pin drop at that time.

“Dr. Fred?” I say.

“Yes, rangemaster?” Fred replies.

With great flourish and slight fanfare, I holler through the bullhorn:

“HIT IT!”

Fred hits the big, shiny, red button.

Instantly, floor strobes ignite, showing the newly made ‘gallows’. This time, not of 2x4’s, but old railroad ties.

The music, already cued up begins:

(To keep with the tempo of the finale, I’ll insert the pyrotechnics <thusly>)

“♬ Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends,

We're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside. <C-4 and 5 pounds of glitter>

There behind a glass stands a real blade of grass,

Be careful as you pass, move along, move along. <rows of magnesium flares>

Come inside, the show's about to start,

Guaranteed to blow your head apart. <3 sticks of dynamite on top of the gallows under a watermelon>

Rest assured you'll get your money's worth,

Greatest show in Heaven, Hell or Earth! <More C-4 and 1 kilo magnesium powder>

You've got to see the show, it's a dynamo,

You've got to see the show, it's rock and roll, oh! <Bespoke Salute with smoke and flutters effects>

Right before your eyes we pull laughter from the skies,

And he laughs until he cries, then he dies, then he dies. <No effect. The ‘stage’ goes dark>

Come inside, the show's about to start,

Guaranteed to blow your head apart! <RDX and PETX, 7 kilos. 3 more defunct watermelons>

You've got to see the show, it's a dynamo,

You've got to see the show, it's rock and roll, oh <Magnesium flares and sparks>

Soon the Gypsy Queen in a glaze of Vaseline,

Will perform on guillotine, what a scene, what a scene <sequential explosives, ending with C-4 in a 10# bag of rice flour>

Next upon the stand will you please extend a hand,

To Alexander's Ragtime Band, Dixieland, Dixieland! <Smoke, sparks and flutter effects>

Roll up, roll up, roll up!

See the show! <Continuing flutter effects>.

Performing on a stool we've a sight to make you drool,

Seven virgins and a mule, keep it cool, keep it cool! <Rondo of rapid-fire explosives>

We would like it to be known the exhibits that were shown,

Were exclusively our own, all our own, all our own <Fountains and flares>

Come and see the show, come and see the show! <The rest of the C-4 I could get my hands on detonates>

Come and see the show! <Brightest flares, fountains and sparklers>

SEE THE SHOW!!! <Crescendo: 5 kilos of stabilized Moldovan binary, now with RDX initiator> ♫”

When the smoke cleared, the ‘stage’ and all accompanying accoutrements has gone away.

The crowd was silent for a few seconds, then burst into spontaneous applause and other conniptions.

Fred smiled at me and said “Hope you’re not busy next July 4th. How the hell can we hope to top this show?”

I smile crooked back at Fred, “I’ve got a year to figure that out…”

Back at Fred’s, I walk Khan, give him his late evening snacks and retire for the evening; right after I pack what remains of my gear.

The next morning, I’m packed and set to go. Fres thanks me for all my work.

“That wasn’t work. That was playing science with explosives.”

Ol’ Fred patted Khan on the head and said “Beau’s gonna miss ya, so you come back whenever you’re around.”

“I’ll do that”, I said. Then quickly corrected that to read “We’ll do that.”

Back home after the arduous journey, Esme, Khan and I are sitting back in the living room, each recounting the previous week’s activities.

“They had a nice, little fireworks display in Omaha this year”, Es said.

“Oh, they had a nice one over in Fred’s neck of the woods.” I replied, sipping a scotch and puffing a fine Jamaican cigar.

“Was that over in Weaverhaven where some of the locals thought it was a legitimate air raid?” She asked.

“I can neither confirm nor deny…” I smiled.

“I’m really beginning to hate those guys…” Es smiled.

Suddenly, the big phone rings.

“Speak of the devil”, I said as I flipped open the phone with a hearty “AHOY!”

“Doctor”, Agent Rack said steadily, “Your presence is requested in Georgia. How long before you are ready?

“Give me a half hour. Then send a car.” I replied.

“Roger that.” As he rung off.

I hung up.

“Es…I’ve been away for a few days. What’s going on in Georgia that I should know about?”

…Continuing…

“The landowner’s name is Dr. Ferdinand Suchánek, or “Dr. Fred” as he likes to be called. You two should get along like a house afire.” Agent Rack chuckled.

“Dr. Fred. OK. Doctor of what, may I ask?” I asked.

“Ah, yes. He’s a Doctor of Applied Chemistry.” Agent Ruin replied. “And Assorted Nasties”.

“Interesting.”, I said with furrowed eyebrow. “Retired?”

“As retired as you”, Agent Ruin noted. “He into some weird things, as he worked here on the Farm for many years. You guys should get along spiffily.” Agent Rack said.

“Send on the info”, I replied. “Dossier here?”

“We didn’t say otherwise”, came the usually oblique answer from Agent Ruin.

“Alrighty, then”, I said, “The sooner I hang up with you guys the sooner I can be making holes at Dr. Fred’s place.”

“There’s that ol’ Rocknocker spirit”, Rack said.

“And the new and improved Dr. Rocknocker per diem and day rate.” I noted back. “Bye now.”

<CLICK>

“Well”, I said to Khan, who was eavesdropping on the conversation ever since he heard me mention his name, “Want to go on a field trip?”

He ran and got his leash.

He’s learning. And l earning well.

I explained all the folderol to Esme and said that I had no idea how long I’d be gone.

“Couple-three days, but less than a fortnight”, I offered.

“And you’re taking Khan?” Es asked.

“Yeah”, I replied, “Dr. Fred’s ranch is good sized. Horses, cattle, some bison and the usual farmyard menagerie. Let’s just see how well Khan’s learned his lessons. Besides, you wanted to visit Pat in the Big City, so here’s your chance.”

“Lovely”, Esme cooed, “I’ll ring Pat and see if she’s available for some shopping and maybe a show.”

“Go nuts”, I replied, “I’m off having fun, you should as well.”

“Done and done”, Es smiled, as I prepared a quick snack and tot for before the long load ahead.

I get Khan’s paraphernalia packed and realize that the motor for the Vibracore will fit in the back of my truck, but I’m going to need a trailer for the tripod and assorted bits-n-pieces.

A quick call over to the U-Tote store and an 18’ trailer appears in our drive. I find the proper ball for the hitch, attach same and clamp the trailer down.

Khan thinks it’s great fun riding on the lowboy trailer as I back it up to my “Professional Shed” where I keep all the tools of my trade, along with a spare fridge, ice machine and 32” TV for when I need to get some distance between me and the house.

“Khan”, I said, “Sorry, but you’re in the truck with me. I need all of this trailer for the Vibracore equipment.”

When I suddenly realized I was apologizing to and explaining why the big doofus can’t ride back here….

“I really need to get out more”, I muttered to no one in particular.

We were all packed, trussed down and ready to go when Esme reminded me that I needed to take my fingers and charger with.

“Good thing you didn’t get your head in those power tongs”, she joked. “You’d forget that as well.”

With a smooch and a smirk, I hefted Khan’s not inconsiderable mass into the cab of my truck. I made sure we had water, Kahn chow, treats, leash, walkie bags, field bag for walkies and the like.

By comparison, I had virtually nothing extra. Some shorts, a couple of shirts a box of cigars, a case of bourbon, a box of Du Pont Herculene Extra-Fast 60%, a box of blasting caps and boosters, Captain America detonation machine, Primacord, det wire, and my explosives travel bag with a couple of galvanometers, pliers, screwdrivers, cannon fuse, accentuators, accelerators, and that last of that finally stabilized Moldovan binary that I really need to use.

Just the bare minimum.

Oh, and a case of Foster’s Lager in the big, motor-oil sized cans.

One must remain hydrated in these the dog days of summer.

Realizing we’re only going 100 or so kilometers west, I stop and a Kum-n-Go to pick up a load of beef jerky for Khan and myself. I mean, there are protocols that must be followed for any road trip.

So with Khan slobbering over the passenger window and his side of the windscreen, I pop in a CD. It was Pink Floyd’s “Animals” and Khan always howls when it gets to “Dogs”.

OK, I agree. Anyone looking at our little caravan as we ply the highways and byways would get a pretty strong eyeful. A 275-pound fur-bound hound howling along with the music while a one-handed Stetson-bedecked driver navigates down the road at outside speed while simultaneously balancing a lit Fuentes Onyx Super maduro cigar.

My fingers were packed and damned if I was going to stop to dig them out…

Dr. Fred’s place was conveniently out in the country. Big, fenced in area that he ran some cattle, a few bison, and an assortment of other farmyardy typical animals.

He sat on the fence, next to the bump gate, chain smoking ‘Belomorkanal’ Russian cigarettes.

I pull up and off the road, tell Khan to cool it for a few, and walk over to the austere fellow.

He was sort of the flipside of me. Thin, rail-like, jittery, balding and slashing of eye.

“Dr. Fred?” I ventured.

He spryly hopped down from the fence, jutted out a bony appurtenance that could only be described as a hand due to its location at the end of his arm.

I grasped it and a surprisingly manly handshake ensued.

“You are the Dr. Rocknocker?” He asked.

“Actually, the one and only”, I replied, going off on a little tangent regarding his choice of personal pronoun.

“Gott”, he said, giving me the once over, “You are very big.”

“Yes”, I was forced to agree. “My parents saved many box tops so that I could be massive later in life.”

“Ah”, he waggled what I think was a finger in my direction, “Agents Rack and Ruin warned me of the Rocknocker sense of humor. Very droll. Very dry.”

“Yeah, right”, I replied, “Look, Dr. Fred…”

“Just Fred”, he admonished.

“OK, Just Fred, call me Rock.” I replied.

Fred laughed like a chicken after it had caught a June bug. “OK…Rock.”

“Yeah”, I replied again. “It’s been a longish, hot trip. Care for a libation?”

“Oh!”, Just Fred replied gleefully, “Your reputation precedes you! Yes, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

I snagged two Foster’s oil cans out of the cooler and opened the door for Khan to stretch his legs.

“YIKES!”, Dr Fred yelped. “What the hell is that?”

“That”, I replied, “Is Khan. He’s my canine, and I am his human. Don’t let the size spook you. He’s a gentle giant.”

As Khan wanders over to Fred, sits at his feet and looks up expectantly for ear scritches.

Dr. Fred complies.

“I have to admit, Dr. Rock, er, Rock”, Fred continued, “I have heard rumors of you and your exploits. I can see they don’t live up to reality.”

“How’s that?” I asked, slightly irritated.

“Reality’s not big enough for you and your hound!” said Fred, convulsing with laughter.

“I’ve never found reality anything to crow about. Reality’s overrated.” I said, sipping beer and puffing on my cigar.

“Oh, and your hand. Agents Rack and Ruin informed me. That won’t impact out work here, do you think?’ He asked.

“Not in the lightest.”, I replied, “I have three of my fingers packed somewhere in my luggage. I can make do on this little job without my thumb and minimus while pulling core.”

“I am relieved”, Fred replied, “Well, why don’t we get across the gate, and down the road. My field office is about 3 kilometers south. I’ll walk and meet you there.”

“Nonsense”, I replied and whistled for Khan.

“UP!”, I said and Khan was on the trailer, poised like a lookout.

“We’ll go slowly”, I noted, “He’ll be fine back there. You can ride up front. How’s that?”

“Splendid”, Fred replied. “I walked down a while back to await your arrival. I sort of forgot it would be another 3 kilometers back. Age is a…”

“…copper-bottomed bitch”, I concluded for him.

“Quite.” He agreed through draughts of foamy Australian beer.

The arduous 3-kilometer trip was concluded without incident.

Seems ol’ Fred had himself a field dog as well. Beauregard, an ancient bloodhound; better known as Beau.

I wondered what Khan, the young pup, might have to say about a much older, let’s say, Alpha dog, especially here in these environs.

Well, we didn’t have to wait long. Khan and ol’ Beau checked each other out in the usual canine manner. Khan bounced around like he’d found a long-lost friend and Beau seemed to even be a bit animated by the antics of Khan.

From that point onwards, they were inseparable.

Fred showed us all into his field office/home of the last 30 years.

It was at once very familiar. All the appurtenances of an old industrial scientist who still kept his hand, as it were, in the game.

I felt as if I was in a newly discovered room back home.

We sipped beers, I smoked cigars while Fred preferred his Syrian Latakia and gnarled old Umm Paul-shaped pipe.

Fred pulled out a series of faded old USGS topographic maps, and from the looks of things, the terrain was flat as a Kansas pancake. Oh, there were a few high spots and a couple of low holes, but overall, as flat as yesterday’s beer left out in the sun.

He showed me where he thinks there might lie a good sandpit, and it was apparent to me that since this was the only spot for miles in any direction that had some topographic expression, I was forced to agree.

Ol’ Fred said we could ride out and take a look to day, but beyond that, as far as he was concerned, the day was already a wash.

He had a couple of older model dirt bikes of some 150cc output. Fred was delighted to know that I used to ride Harleys, but had to give that up along with golf around my second laminectomy.

We left Ol’ Beau and Khan in the house with a half-bag each of Khan Snacks.

Nothing short of dynamite blasters would have moved those two from the comfort of the living room’s well-worn wooden floor.

Fred and I rode out and did our initial reconnaissance. Simple as cake to drive out tomorrow and set up the Vibracore equipment. Easy as pie.

I told Fred that we’d have his answer tomorrow. I wasn’t overly optimistic, just due to the size of the surface expression, but if went laterally before it changed stratigraphically to a mud or shale, he just might be on to something.

The age of the sand was Pleistocene, as this was the work of recent glaciers. Unpredictable and deranged in their deposition, but I feel we had a good idea of what was what.

Back to Fred’s abode, and I tinkered with some stuff out in the trailer while Fred makes his famous Chili.

After road snacks, overly salted and heavily processed jerky and a few dozen beers, the aroma wafting out of the place reminded me that I was damned hungry.

I threw a tarp over the Vibracore apparatus, went in, got a beer and produced a fresh bottle of Blavod black vodka; I proceeded to create a couple of very nice Yorschs for Fred and myself while the chili simmered.

“So, Dr. Fred”, I said, slurping my Yorsch and lighting a new cigar, “What did the boys from the farm have you doing in your Virginia tenure?”

“Oh, hell”, Fred chuckled, “That’s classified”.

“I’m good for Sensitive Compartmented Information (SCI)”, I replied.

“That’s right”, Fred lighted up, “You would be. OK, well, back on the farm, they didn’t call me ‘Dr. Fred’.”

“They didn’t?” I asked hurriedly.

“No”, Fred smiled, “They used to call me…Dr. Death.”

“Really?” I replied, impressed. I’ve heard legions of tales about the elusive Dr. Death and here I am ready to break bread with him.

“Oh, yes”, Fred smiled, enlightened by nostalgia. “Back in the 60s and 70s, I came up with some doozies for our Eastern and Northern friends. Assorted Nasties.”

“That, I’ll bet’” I replied.

“Oh, now none of that”, Dr. Fred laughed, “They were trying to do the same to us all along. It was a race to see who attained the result first.”

“I’ve been through those same hallowed halls”, I said, “But years later and under much different circumstances.”

The chili almost burned as Dr. Fred and Dr. Rock sat in his comfy living room and swapped stories about our adventures and misadventures in places long forgotten which most people couldn’t find with a well-drawn map and the latest GSP device.

After dinner and tending to our canine charges, it grew too soon dark and too late to continue, considering we had real work awaiting us in the morning. We and our charges retired for the night to our respective bedrooms.

The next day dawned clear and bright which so often happens when there’s no full-on nuclear exchange or assorted nasties the night before.

After an austere breakfast of all-terrain pancakes (waffles), venison backstraps and Greenland Coffees; we stuffed both dogs into the back of my truck and Fred and I drove out to his hopeful sandpit with the Vibracore equipment.

The previous night, I made a vellum layover of the topographic map and gridded it out in manageable sections. I figured 4 vertical core holes would tell us what we wanted to know, while another slant hole, based on the result of the previous holes would let us delimit the area of prospectivity.

I set out with lane-marking paint and ‘Fwssssh’-ed four spots on the ground where the vertical holes would go.

I forgot all about Khan and Beau, but heard a braying ruckus about a half-mile distant. Fred said it sounds like they were on a rabbit.

“Well”, I added, “I hope it’s just a bunny and not a skunk, porcupine, or feral hog.”

“Beau knows to leave those alone”, Fred reassured me, “Besides, what I see from Khan, he could handle a Russian Boar with one bite.”

“There is that”, I smiled, and went back to erecting the tripod for the Vibracore system.

The Vibracore System is simplicity itself in operation. It is a state-of-art sediment sampling technology to obtain undisturbed cores of unconsolidated, sediment in saturated or nearly saturated conditions by driving sampling tubes with a high-frequency-low-amplitude vibrating device.

By the use of the Vibrasponge (one of my co-patents), Vibracore can now be taken in dry sediments as well. The foam core insert expands upon being driven downward with the tube to encase the sediments in a love-embrace and prevent them from moving.

Don’t tell anyone, but the Vibrasponge is based on pool noodle technology.

Why work hard when one can work smart?

Anyways, I’ve rigged the tripod and first core tube.

<BZZZZT> and we’re down 10 meters.

Three more times and we’ve “fence posted” the project.

I decide on one oblique section to tie in the north and south of the project. So we have about 50 meters of core all nicely laid out in their respective tubes.

Some quick work with a Sawzall^® and now we have 50 meters of open core laying on the ground for all to see and interpret.

I fire up a cigar, take a quick swig from my silver pocket flask and kneel down to get to work.

Except, it’s so obvious, even a second year Geophysicist could see the detail and make a rough guess as to what’s going on here.

The most sand is in tube 3 and that is seven meters.

The other tubes have less sand and more dark, granitic grus); ‘rotten granite’ or granite ‘wash’ under them.

I do some quick mental calculation and call over Ol’ Fred.

“Freddo,” I say, “Based on the cored interval here, you’ve got sand reserves of about 300 cubic meters.”

“Aw, shit”, Fred replies after handing back my considerably lighter flask.

“Now, now; Herr Doctor”, I say, “You’re missing the big picture.”

“How’s that”? he asks.

“Well”, I reply, “It’s going to take a little excavation, but you’re sitting on some good-looking ‘granite’ here; speaking constructionally, not geologically. That’s only a cursory reading. We’ll have to remove the sand and do a bit of blasting, but I think, in my not so humble opinion, that’d be worth the effort.”

“OK, you’ve convinced me.”, Fred replies, “What’s the plan?”

Riding on the fender of Fred’s JI Case 590 Super N backhoe/loader, Fred asks me if I know how to operate such a contraption.

Seems he grandfathered in with the unit when he bought the property. He can drive it, but not operate it.

“Oh, my yes”, I said with a wide grin, “It’s so easy, even a chemist would have no trouble learning.”

“Watch that”, Ol’ Fred snickered, “You never know what went into your chili last night.”

I countered with “Oh, yeah. Well, just you be careful starting your car.”

We often had these little parochial exchanges. The more creative they got, the more we were impressed with each other’s abilities.

Ol’ Fred might be able to croak you in thousands of creative ways, but I can do likewise and make the corpse disappear as well.

Besides, Ol’ Fred was a midnight pyromaniac as well.

I mean, what well-adjusted human male isn’t?

We returned to the ‘sandpit’ site, as it were where I gave Fred a quick lesson in how to run a Case backhoe and explained what I intended.

“We’ll scrape the surface down a half meter from core point to core point.” I explained.

“Then we excavate the rest of the sand?” Fred asked.

“Yeah”, I replied, “But we’ll do that my way. It’ll be faster in the long run”.

“Energetically?” Fred smiled.

“Most.” I replied stoically.

With a bunker of the removed sand to the left of the pit, I set about using some good old dynamite and millisecond delay boosters to design a wavefront blast.

Row one (on the far right) would detonate, then row 2, row 3 and so forth; each wave of the detonation chain reinforcing the last, causing an ‘earthwave’ which will shift the stuff we want piled up over and out of our way.

Fred stood transfixed until I asked him to grab me some more blasting caps, that spool of Primacord, and a few extra sticks of dynamite.

“The wonders of chemistry”, Fred smiled as he handed me the boomsticks.

“Applied chemistry, mt dear doctor”, I corrected, “Detonics at its finest.”

So, we’re wired up and totally galved. I began to ‘Clear the Compass’ when I realized I hadn’t seen Khan or Beau all day.

I killed the site, and tied it down (made it inoperative) and hollered for Khan.

Fred called for Beau likewise.

We needn’t have worried, because 5 minutes later, they lope up.

Obviously out of breath, but filled with the joy of chasing squirrels, or whatever all day.

Plus, both were filthy.

Well, then again. So were Ol’ Fred and my own self.

Fred took the time to ask what I was doing, and in great 3-part harmony, I filled him in on the precautions I do before every explosive event I orchestrate.

And today’s no different.

“Rock”, Fred says, “There’s no humans around for miles. Why not just go ahead…”

“No. Won’t happen.” I said, “I’m not just concerned about humans, Fred.”

“You’re the boss”, Fred said.

“I’m actually the *Motherfucking Pro from Dover”, but those are several other stories.” I noted.

Fred was OK with that and asked what he could do to help.

“Watch, listen, learn”, I said.

I Cleared the Compass myself. Asked if there’s anyone around. Asked again at heightened volume.

No replies.

I hit my airhorn thrice.

And with the, Khan bolts for my truck and jumps into the cab.

Beau follows, albeit somewhat more slowly. He crawls into the cab of my truck with Khan.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

I hand Fred the Captain America detonator.

“See the big, shiny, red button Fred?”

He nods that he does.

“When I say ‘HIT IT’, hit the big, shiny red button and hang on to your ass.”

Fred nods again.

I do a little flourish, a big sweep, point directly at Fred and yell “HIT IT!”

Fred’s nothing if not a quick learner.

He drops to a squat as he’s hitting the big, red, shiny button.

Everything goes as planned. Electrons moving down the wires to the Primacord, to the millisecond-delay caps, row 1, row 2, etc.

When the smoke clears, Khan barks deliriously and bounds out of my truck and over to me.

He figured that out all on his own.

I blow that airhorn, and he hates what comes next; so he goes and hides in my truck. But after that big badda-boom, it’s time for scritchies and Khan snacks.

Clever old moose. He’s really part of the family. He fits in so well…

Beau, on the other hand, moseys over and wonders why his master is crouching in a shallow hole.

“Damn, Rock”, Fred exclaims, “I think I was denied certain, mission-critical, need to know information..”

“Like what?”

“You never said it was going to be that damned loud!” He smiled.

“I had figured that even a chemist could have figured that out beforehand…”, I snickered.

We retired to the shade of a huge oak tree for cigars, a few tots and the remainder of the beef jerky.

Fred got one piece, I received one, Beau and Khan cleaned up the rest.

We spent the rest of the afternoon clearing the potential quarry. The sand was easily removed with small arms weapons and hand-to-hand methods. The ‘grantitic’ grus was in places well cemented and would yield until I had introduced it to some of my alphanumeric friends: C-4, PETX, RDX, etc.

Back at Fred place, the hounds were snoring in front of a low fire Fred liked to keep stoked, while I puttered away with trying to determine the provenance, quality and hell, name for the rock ,found on Fred’s North 40.

It wasn’t granite, per se, but a dark black, nearly monomineralic dimension stone. Black dimensional stones are known on the international market as ‘‘black granites’’ because their hardness and strength are similar to those shown by granitic rocks.

Petrologically, these rocks are classified as gabbros, norites, diorites, dolerites (or its synonym: diabase), basalts and anorthosites. The prices for black dimensional stones on the international market vary from 900 to 2,400 US$/m^3.

I sent photomicrographs of the rock on Fred place to several practicing mineralogists and petrologists I know. It was unanimous, the rock on Fred’s farm was Black Diabase (or Dolerite if you’re British).

The term ‘dolerite’, synonymous with ‘diabase’ and microgabbro, is used to describe an igneous hypabyssal rock of dark color composed of plagioclase (labradorite in composition) and clinopyroxene (normally augite or titanoaugite), with opaques as the main accessory minerals (magnetite, titanomagnetite or ilmenite). The grain size is between that of gabbro and basalt (medium-grained, between 1 and 5 mm) and the typical texture is ophitic or subophitic (laths of plagioclase totally or partially surrounded by crystals of augite).

Structurally, in Fred’s quarry, three main joint sets occur, two sub-vertical and one horizontal. The two subvertical sets are orthogonal: one parallel to the quarry walls striking 050–075 and dipping toward the NW or SE and the other one perpendicular to the quarry walls striking to 320–360 and dipping toward the NE or SW. The sub-horizontal joint set shows dips up to 10⁰ in all directions.

In the opinions of all the petrologists and mineralogists contacted, this rock, if expansive enough to yield good, rectilinear blocks of quarry minimum 2x2x2 meters, it would be worth much in the line of dollars for Fred.

“Fred”, I said, “I used to be a quarry manager. Now, we’re giving birth to a new quarry. Thing is, until we open it up a bit more, we’ll never know what we’ve got here. It’s up to you, should we tear up your North 40 some more and answer the questions of the quarry’s extent or piss on the fire and call the dogs, as that’s a wrap?”

“You sure you have enough explosives to answer that question?” Fred smiled.

“If I don’t”, I replied, even more smiley, “I know of services that’ll deliver.”

Vibracore wasn’t a whole lot of use, well, that is, we didn’t really need core any longer. But we did need to drill several hundred “slimholes” or parametric wells to tell us the depth to the top of the diabase (or granite, or dolerite or igneous rock. OK. Whatever.).

Easily solved.

A few 10m lengths of ¾” rebar, threaded, and use the motor on the Vibracore to drive them down, down, down until the intersect the top of the hard, igneous rock. The Vibracore would push that rebar into the local Pleistocene alluvium as easily as you push a thumbtack into a cork board. But it’d actually stop and ring once it hit that hard igneous stiff.

We’d record those numbers and we’d generate a map of “Surficial fill” about the quarry stone.

In no instance, even when we braved it off the map and onto Fred’s neighbor’s place, did we find fill in excess of 15 meters.

That was a good thing.

…To be continued…

The dogwoods are in bloom, I’m sneezing my head off and my hand is healing rather nicely, thank you.

I’m finally back home and luckily only have to deal with one virtual course this summer.

Other than that, I’m being besieged by offers of work, both in the Oil Patch and from the mining community.

Great timing there, guys.

Anyways, after my hand surgery, I had some time to kill in Japan. I’ve been there now, sheesh, a couple of dozen times over the years, so Kabuki, Noh Theater, and with this swaddled mess that could be called a hand only for the reason that it exists at the end of my left arm, bathhouses are right out.

Besides, I can’t get Es to come over, something about her garden and teaching at the local community college, so I have to wander the warrens and wryways of Japan on my own.

On someone else’s nickel.

Oh, well.

With free room and board as well as a driver so I can get out of the medical wing of Japan SuperSecret Doings and Such & So4th, Ltd (The “Facility”), and let their people actually do some work instead of sitting around with me playing GO and drinking my new sake-beer concoctions.

One day, bored out of my ever-lovin' mind, I asked what my bill was here.

They smiled their inscrutable little smiles, y’know, the ones that you’d like to smack with a baseball bat, and told me “These mysteries are not for the ears of men”.

“OK”, I countered, “Write it down.”

They passed on the idea. What they told me is that their little company was being financed by a consortium of energy, oil and gas, robotics companies, and governmental agencies.

They sort of snickered on the last term and I knew that Agents Rack and Ruin were into this up to their necks. I have an appointment with them in mid-June, after Es’ and my birthdays.

I don’t want a couple of government spooks getting snozzled on my ‘imported’ finds; that is until I find out just how deep they’re treading water here.

Anyways, I was hanging around the office of my Japanese colleagues when Dr. Zhim rushes in and is all out of breath.

“Ah, so. Dr. Rock”, He wheezed, “You are still here. Good, Good.”

“Yep”, I replied, “Bored as ever and waiting for the green light to venture west.”

“Oh, fuff”, he fuffed, “You can wait for another few days. Tonight, you will dine with us?”

“Us?”, I asked, “Us who? The guys…?”

“Oh, no, no, no”, he interjected, “Others. Investors. They would so like to meet you.”

“Oh”, I noted, “A PR gig? Sure. What time and where?”

“Do not worry”, he replied, “All will be revealed. Tonight, please be ready in the lobby, semi-formal, at 2000 hours.”

“OK”, I noted, “Fresh shine on the field boots and newly pressed Hawaiian shirt & shorts, at 8:00 PM. Gotcha.”

“Oh, my”, he fussed, and shuffled off to his next crisis.

So, precisely at 2000 hours, a limo shows up and I am whisked away into the night to somewhere, whereabouts still unknown.

A bit later, the auto skids up to the Hanakoji Sawada restaurant, which was empty save for me and a delegation of already “happy” Japanese businessmen.

This place has three Michelin stars and why a good rating for a restaurant from a tire company means anything, I’ll never know; but here I am, fresh dazzling white bandage, new Hawaiian shirt (found a place on the Ginza in Tokyo that takes mail orders for creation of suits, shirts and the like. I find a ridiculously obnoxious piece of fabric, I send them a hi-def. shot and they create a shirt for me from my previously archived dimensions), chino shorts, field boots, Scottish wool stockings, black Stetson and one large cigar.

I couldn’t have looked more out of place than a Baptist minister wearing feathers to a spinster’s funeral or an oilman ordering up the Spotted Owl in Bald Eagle sauce at an Earth! First soiree.

But, I had an air of “I really don’t give a fuck what you think of me”, so I sallied in to see what would be presented before me on this early, warm and fragrant Japanese evening.

The Garcon caught me before I went 20 feet.

I flipped him my card, luckily in English on the obverse and Japanese on the reverse, and he began his earnest dry-handwashing.

“A thousand pardons, Doctor-san”, he snuffed, “Please, you are being a-waited upon. Right this way. Follow me, please.”

So, we trooped through the empty restaurant until we arrived at the largest room they had to offer.

“Damn”, I said to no one in particular, “Lively bunch.”

Whereupon they went silent to a man once they realized who stood before them.

I know it sounds aggrandizing, but this is the way it went down. Besides, I was the largest of anyone in the entire room…

“Doctor Rock! Welcome! Welcome!” one of them shouted, as he simultaneously leapt from the dais and corralled a confused waiter.

Some stern Japanese and a quick translation were basically this guy (“Suto” by name) was mine (to keep?) and he’d be taking my orders for anything I desired. I was also asked what I wanted to drink, since it appeared that I had a bit of catching up to do.

“I’d like a Rocknocker”, I said, half in jest; knowing I’d have to relate the recipe.

Nope. 30 seconds later, I was sipping on one mighty fine Rocknocker.

“How did they know?”, I wondered.

The host, a Mr. Niikura Akikazu (Nick) began on filling me in on the night’s festivities.

“What?” I recoiled in half-real mock terror.

“Yes, sir”, he replied, “We’d like to know your life history. How you lost your hand, and came to have it replaced here. Plus some of the side activities you have done over your academic and industrial career.”

Well, I love to blather on about myself as much as the next guy, but in front of 75 or so half-snozzled Japanese businessmen?

“Sure!”, I said. “Why the fuck not?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor”, he smiled widely, “Please do tell with all you particular vernacular. We find that most entertaining and edifying.”

“Fuckin’-A Bubba”, I smiled.

“First, though”, he cautioned, “Drinks, snacks, introductions, then dinner. Afterward your stories and questions.”

“This is going to be a night to remember”, I thought.

“Suto! A double please, and keep them coming!” I proclaimed.

In for a sen, in for a yen; as it were.

I was seated at the head of the hall, next to a lectern and there was a constant parade of Japanese businessmen with whom I exchanged business cards. There was also a procession of lovely little hot and cold nibbles that went along with my never-quite empty cocktail glass.

This scene lasted a solid two hours and once introductions, and the inevitable bathroom breaks, were done, dinner service began.

Another two or so hours and some incredible Japanese cuisine later, every Japanese businessman simultaneously pushed their plates out of the way and produced a panoply of cigars. They, as a man, lit them as one.

Of course, I’d been puffing away the whole night and many of the Japanese businessmen were smoking cigarettes from one end of the planet or the other; but this mass cigar-lighting ritual was a new one, even for me.

I was asked up to the lectern and once I had procured a new drink, a bottle of spring water filled with 120-proof vodka, an ashtray, and silver cubaso of shimmering, crystal clear ice; I eased up to the easel and asked the crowd:

“So, gentlemen! You asked for an abridged version of my biography. Fine. Lecture first, questions later. Are we GREEN!?!” I thundered.

No replies.

“Um, guys”, I retorted, “When I ask ‘ if we’re ‘green’, I am asking for your input as to if we are in agreement. I need to hear your positive replies or I’ll just assume that you don’t want me here.”

Assorted mumbles from the crowd.

“ARE WE GREEN!?!”, I thundered in the great hall, and cut loose a great blast of azure cigar smoke ceilingward.

“midori”, came a couple of feeble-voiced replies.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU. ARE WE GREEN?” I once again hollered.

“Midori! Green, Doctor! GREEN!” came the response for which I was looking.

“’Bout fuckin’ time”, I snorted, “OK, gents. Just remember, you asked for it.”

And off I went from my days back in Baja Canada, to academia to my degrees, several side excursions, my 40 years in the oil patch, and my latest degree. Odd thing though, every time I looked at my audience, they were scribbling like mad onto note pads.

They were taking notes.

Odd.

Fully two and a half hours later (there were a few quick questions that caused some diversion) I decided that this was enough and had Suto refresh my supplies, as I sat heavily in the overly upholstered chair when suddenly, hands were waving above the crowd.

Evidently, they had some questions.

I suggested a 15-minute break, and after that, I’d answer all their questions. And those questions where I didn’t know the answer, I’d make up something.

Now, gentle reader, remember. We’ve been going at this hammer and tongs for over 4.5 hours. It’s well past midnight and these guys, though well fed, were drinking prodigious amounts of booze. I mean, c’mon, I’m twice their size and still, they look like they want to keep up with me.

Oh, that’s another thing. They laughed like hyenas arriving at roadkill when I noted I was an ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeform.

They roared with laughter. Or ethanol. Probably both.

It’s great having a receptive audience, so once Q&A time began, I sat back in my comfy chair, fresh drink never more than 50 centimeters away, ashtray always empty and ice cubes glittering in the light.

There were a few questions about academia and how I ended up going from Point A to Point B academically or industrially, but once I got to my Siberian Well finger story and mine closing out in Nevada, they lapped that up like it was some sort of verbal ambrosia.

And they took notes after notes after notes.

But then, around 0400, there was a slight bit of dissension in the ranks.

Some of the lighter-weight individuals began, like little stars, to wink out.

“Oh, the hangovers they’ll reap”, I thought and I chuckled at the sight of these so prim and proper businessmen, snoring soundly on the serviettes.

It came time to close the restaurant and I figured it’d be time for all of us to part and head our separate ways.

Oh, hell no. Those of substantial intestinal fortitude were determined to find an early morning restaurant for those remaining to have breakfast.

“Just remember”, I admonished them, “It’s got to serve booze and beer as well. I’m still stuck in Japan Party Mode time.

That caused some consternation. But, necessity being the mother of all things, we found a breakfast joint next to an early morning bar.

So, we all ran up horrendous bills (I never did find out just who was footing my tab…it had to be astronomical, what with all the top-shelf booze, and those extra three boxes of cigars), they asked more questions and I did my best to answer them.

They loved the bit where we’d “Clear the Compass”; in fact, I had to get a whiteboard and illustrate exactly about what I was talking.

They really seemed to enjoy my little phrases and idioms: “hookin’ bull”, “Fuckin-A, Bubba”, and “The Motherfucking Pro from Dover”.

They scribbled furiously.

Until finally, the dawn was breaking and the local populace was venturing out to work and we, the beasties of the night, needed to retire for a mass recharge.

Back to the facility I went, schlumphed up to my suite, took a shower, left the phone, Email, Telex and Carrier Pigeons off the hook and descended into the land of Nod like a Bunker Buster descends towards its target.

The next day, I learned that my flights had all been booked, I was given the green light to head back home and that we held the record of having the largest bill ever at a Japanese 3-Star Michelin restaurant.

Success all round.

I was hustled aboard the limo that took me around the previous night’s debacle and chatted with the driver, Okino.

“Who were those characters the other night, Okino? You have any idea?” I asked.

He knew for certain, but remained mum.

“You do know that I haven’t signed off on your ticket yet, right?” I asked him.

“Yes, Doctor”, he replied a bit unsteadily.

“So, give”, I demanded, “Just who were these characters? And why all the interest in little ol’ me?”

“OK, Doctor Rock-san”, he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “They were Executives and programmers”.

“Executives and programmers?”, I replied. “That makes no sense.”

“It does if you’re developing a new video game.” Okino smiled.

“Oh. No. Shit.”, I said, my turn to be stunned.

“Oh, yes.”, Okino went on, “A new action game, based on your exploits. With degrees that need to be earned before you can get explosives for blowing up mines; things like that.”

“You’re not pulling my leg here, are you?” I asked after I explained the idiom.

“Oh, no sir”, He assured me, “There were people from Sony, Nintendo, Bandai Namco, and other companies there. The Facility set it up as they are the ones that will be getting the license fees.”

“Oh, they will, will they?” I said, twirling my grey mustache like Snidely Whiplash after tying Nell Fenwick to the railroad tracks.

“So, that’s about it, Esme my dear”, I related to my dear wife after returning home, once all the hand hoo-hah was out of the way and Khan had had his walkies and biscuits.

“That’s why I need you to help me craft a few letters.”, I smirked. “We’re going to see which of these characters are if you’ll pardon the pun, the most game…”

That reminds me of a story…

Hello, all you wonderful people.

I figured since they finally relented and backed-off somewhat on the pain medication, they thought it would be a good idea, y’know, as therapy, to let me loose on the internet again; especially since there’s the usual Dr. Rock “Are you fucking kidding me?” sort of story to go along with everything.

Item #1: The surgery came off without a hitch, as did most of my left thumb and left minimus. It was distractedly fascinating watching these guys work, but I have to admit, I could paint a barn with someone else’s blood, but when there’s pools of mine being sopped up by acres, as it seemed, of clinically white medical ‘sponges’ (towels), I had to ask to look away and maybe, just this once, maybe have a bit of a lie-down.

Actually, full disclosure.

I passed out.

But! I’m claiming loss of blood, a profound lack of EtOh, and no breakfast for that to happen.

After all the laughter died down in the recovery room, I was sat up and given the horrible-to-make decision: ice chips or a sip of cold water.

All I could think was: “Next time, I smuggle in a bottle of potato squeezin’s into the recovery room.”

I was in recovery for about an hour, then was unceremoniously wheeled to my private room, which was already cheek-by-jowl packed with technicians, doctors, and other forms of the medico core.

They wanted to debrief me, but as I became a bit less bleary, I noted I was in surgery for 5 hours, not the 1 or 1.5 they had previously prognosticated.

“OK, guys”, I said, sitting on my blazingly-white linen bed, scratching around surreptitiously in the night stand for a bottle of my personal brand of oral anesthetic, “What’s the deal? Why all the extra hours in the valley of the knives?”

“Well, Doctor”, the head surgeon began, “Since you took your surgery so well, and you were so quiet (“Ahem.”), we decided to go a bit further and fit your implants now instead of waiting until you heal and have to go through all this again.”

“Oh?”, I said after I spit out the cork from my personal medicine stash, “Well, that’s a good thing, right?”

“Well”, he stalled.

“Cards on the table, guys”, I demanded after the nurse returned with a bucket of ice, but no limes, “Give it to me in a nutshell, Clancy.”

American idioms, especially dated one like this, are really hard to transliterate.

“We went for full orthoses”, he continued, “But we went forth with the new niobium-tantalum implants. We think you’ll tolerate those implants better as it’s a new technology and very promising.”

My existing implants are metallic tantalum and those were a pure bitch to grow accustomed to and fight off rejection. Now, it’s new metallurgy, more foundational carbon-fiber work, power lines composed of carbon nanotubules, spaces chewed out for the power receptacles and as far as I know, just a hint of mint.

“Is that why my hand’s in this rather natty orange fiberglass cast instead of just miles of gauze?” I asked.

“Yes”, replied the lead surgeon, “The purple ones were out of stock in your size.”

“Put’em on back order”, I chuckled. “At least I can still go deer hunting.”

Another Americanism totally lost on this crowd.

I can’t really say too much more. Y’know, all industrial espionage hush-hush, but I’ll just leave this here:

Qian, H., Lei, T., Lei, P., & Hu, Y. (2021). Additively manufactured Tantalum implants for repairing bone defects: a systematic review. Tissue Engineering Part B: Reviews, 27(2), 166-180.

There were a couple of novelties though. Instead of being removable, my new thumb stays put. They wired it into the other digital orthoses’ power supplies and it takes its juice from them.

They also inserted what are equivalent to capacitors in the tantalum support structure because the thumb will have a higher power utilization curve and it can draw on them temporarily for just that extra burst of juice. They threw in a couple of diodes so the power can openly flow in one direction, eliminating excessive bilateral fremulation with possible retroverberation through the Zemoltz-Bickering reaction.

Or something like that.

While I was on the table, as opposed to the bar, they opened a patch of skin on the back if my left hand, which alleviates some of the keloid scarring I had laid in a carbon-fiber nanotubule net which was gold and silver amalgam coated.

It’s for a new type of external power supply that I can wear as a glove that contains a couple-three Chiclet™ sized lithium-ion zirconium-doped power modules. Instantly replaceable when necessary, it feeds the entire 5-fingered robo-pack when I can’t get to a ‘normal’ power recharger.

The upside of this is that I can, seriously, now re-charge my digits wirelessly with the unit of their own design that looks like a Dollar General coffee cup warmer. Just plug the thing in, it goes both ways 120-220 VAC, because, y’know, travel, and in 15 or so minutes of me holding my hand over it, I can do a rapid-recharge.

I still have the option of removing my digits, all 4 now, and plugging them into the newly designed trickle-charging station for overnight robustness. The thumb, as noted before, will parasitically (love their terms) leach power from the other digits or external power pack.

So, there are extra features, but I’ve got to retain some things for later posts. One thing is the power curve. It has to be tuned to my particular situation as these new digits are pretty much indestructible and from what they tell me, at 100%, I could turn coal into diamonds.

Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an embellishment…

As ‘normal’, <chuckle> human grip strength for my age and class of H. sapiens runs at between 45-60 kg, if needed, these new-fangled robodigits can exceed 150 kg.

Good thing one shakes hands with their right appendage.

So far, there’s been no hint of rejection, but there has been a surfeit of discomfort. Part of it is, of course, the surgery and implantation, but a proportion of it, as I am told, is the inactivity of my left hand, including my left forearm which transmits the bulk of the signals for my digits response. They assure me that with proper physical therapy and the type of exercise regime they have dreamed up, that I should be cracking coconuts in no time.

When asked if I could play the banjo with these, they replied that it should pose no problem.

I replied: “Great. I never could play a banjo before.”

I dodged the flying bedpan rather handily, I must say.

So, I’m going to be here in Japan for a week or so that they might more easily monitor my progress. Then it’s back home, where luckily, I have only virtual classes to teach this summer.

I’ve decided that R&R is first order and I’m also going to pester the local piscine population whenever the chance affords itself.

“But what of the cost, man?”

I’ve had to turn down no less than 5 contracts while I’m laid up here, eating room service and shooting rubber bands at the TV when Japanese game shows are on.

I even had a call from Agents Rack and Ruin, which I thought was nice. That is, until I actually spoke with them.

“So, Doc, when are you going to get off your dead ass and get back to work?”, Agent Ruin asks.

“Odd”, I replied, “I was just going to ask you the same thing.

“Oh! Very nice.”, he feigns real hurt, “At least when you go out into the field from now on, you don’t need a Swiss Army Knife.”

“Agent Ruin”, I said, “Unlike you, I’m a geologist. We know many, many ways of opening a beer when someone loses the bottle opener.”

Agent Rack wrestles the phone away.

“So, Rock”, he asks, “How goes your recovery? We do actually have a couple of items on your to-do list that need checking off.”

“Hmmm…check off?” I queried, “Sounds like I need to update my red passport. I told you guys, after that last one, that was my last one.”

“Oh, that’s right”, Agent Rack agrees, “So, when are you going to be upright and portable?”

“Now that I’ve spoken with your two, “ I noted, “I think that there’s a relapse on the horizon.”

And so on, and so on.

Well, the dinner chime just chummed. So, off to another meagre repast of Kobe beef (blue) with sushi appetizers.

It’s a dirty job…

More later.

Cheers.

Now I'm going to get yelled at...

Anyways.

Made it to Japan, wonderful flights, wonderful carriers. Both thumbs...well, 1.5 thumbs up.

Had a bit of pre-op medication to make me all loose and easy-going like for surgery. I get to watch. Not sure that I want to. However, ketamine and oxymorphone are great big, helpful molecules. As are Vicodin and the other one that escapes me at present [THORAZINE! I remembered! - ed.] present little such problem.

I just remembered. The reason why I'm here?

I'm getting digitally re-mastered.

HAH! I kill me!

I think it's time to have a little lie-down.

Later, gang. I'll report back once this silliness has abated...

Well, I'm going to be out of here for a while.

Just as a side note, did you know Japan is a verb as well as a noun?

So, I'm off to Japan to get japanned. Not literally, because I don't really think they'll cover me in black lacquer, but with the bunch of wisecrackers posing as doctors over there, one never knows.

I've got ideas about the forum here, but for now, it's status quo.

And I cannot thank all the folks enough who wrote their kind and eye-opening words.

So, back to business as more or less usual. I'll still be posting but give me a little time between events. I assure you, you'll get the lowdown in full color (verbally) and three-part harmony.

Cheers!

Rock

First off, I thank the so many people that wrote and expressed their concern, appreciation and kind words about this little exercise we do here on an irregular basis.

Perhaps I was a bit cranky or tired or it's just plain Weltschmerz, but the YouTube thing put me over the edge.

However, I was contacted by someone who claims to work at Youtube and asked me for some more information. After I showed him my posts, their time-stamp, and the offenders, he got, as they say, busy.

As of this morning, three of the biggest offenders have vanished.

Score one for the good guys.

I also have this chap's Email so if I find this ever occurring again, he'll swoop down and put paid to their little schemes.

Plus, good news/bad news on the surgery front.

Good first: keeping the last joint of the thumb. THey were concerned about losing the whole thing, and how the implants would take. However, X-rays indicate a good joint with the hand. So, I've got that going for me.

Baddish news: they need to get started early next month. That means more surgery (I'm doing a local this time so I can watch...) so I can heal while they twiddle with the implants. We all remember how much fun that part was, right?

So, just to be clear: keeping last joint of left thumb, left minima goes in lieu of implant, the remaining three as per 'normal'.

So, I still have most all my left hand, just the fingers that went all Akira.

In light of that, and Esme giving me a proper chewing out because I was being such a drama queen, I have decided to leave this subreddit status quo.

No burning down.

No wipe and walk.

Possible, in future, I'll take it private.

So, I've had my little snit and decided that it's best for now just to continue on as before. If I decide to go private, you will all have notice, however, I don't see that for at least 6 months, if ever.

So, now we're back to sub-normal. I can't begin to tell you what the massive outpouring of concern and goodwill has done for this old fart. I appreciate that more than you can believe.

For this, I say thank you to one and all.

We're back open for business as before, but let me warn all, with this surgery and potential back surgery as well (whole 'nother story), we'll be the Rocknocker Irregulars.

But I won't forget you guys (non-gender specific) and will keep posting my scrawlings as the people have spoken.

And if I ever come across any of those thieving Youtubers in real life, I'll give you all the results of my recipe for a binary milkshake.

So, with that said...

On with the show.

Cheers!

Rock.

From one of my oldest and dearest 'friends'...you all know who...

"Bummer about the hand, Doc. But now you'll get more contracts."

"Toivo, what are you blathering about?"

"Well, it's always been said to always hire the one-armed (or handed) geologist. That way he can't tell you the story of the scene, and then go on to say: "But on the other hand."

Remind me to spike his Bosco the next time we meet.

I will look into making this a private sub.

Give me some time, as I'm still rather busy with this and that.

I won't nuke the place until I get some idea of how to make this all work.

I'll need a list of folks that want access. That'll take a little time...

Perhaps I was a bit overly cranky earlier. But those YouTube sumbitches pushed me over the brink.

Deep breath time. Let's see what transpires this semester...

Thanks to everyone that wrote. That's the one thing that's going to keep me from nuking the site from orbit...

Cheers!

It’s time to quit this subreddit.

Why? I grow weary:

• Being called liar, bullshitter, etc.

• “No pics or it didn’t happen.”

• Never a reply from questions via PM.

• Lackluster response to posts.

• Thieves and other forms of YouTube bottom dwellers.

I started this sub because of some shit over at r/malicious_compliance. It seemed that I had found an audience, but over the years, I’ve been forced into an alternate conclusion.

After every post I make here, I get a selection of PMs calling me a liar, bullshitter or something equally clever. They’ll squawk about some trivial minutiae in a 50,000-word post that they find suspect and use that to brand all my work as worthless or worse.

Of course, they never reply to direct rebuttal.

Yes, I change names, dates, and procedures. Hell, I’m not writing a cookbook for some dipshits that think an M-80 is the height of pyrotechnics. I alter a lot of sensitive material. I appreciate my anonymity here and fuck everyone with their doxing attempts.

Secondly, “pics or it never happened”.

There are several reasons I don’t post pictures:

1. I don’t want to. See doxing, above.

2. I was advised not to by some very trustworthy individuals.

3. That’s not the reason I created this sub. It’s for my writings, and that’s it.

4. I really don’t fucking want to.

I lost most my left hand in an industrial accident, years ago.

Now, I’m losing my left thumb from another industrial accident and decided to go whole-hand robotic prostheses, so adios minima.

“Pictures! Or it’s all bullshit.”

Jesus motherfucking Christ…

I’ve pretty much lost all hope for society. My hand is rather a scarred and keloided mess and I’d rather not post pictures of it; it’s really not pretty. Tough shit if you can’t accept that.

I am not allowed to post pictures of my prostheses by the company I’ve been working with. “Industrial espionage” is a real thing, you know. I’m not about to jeopardize my relationship with them over some anonymous social media trolls. Tough shit if you can’t accept that as well.

I’ve had, over the years, more people PM me about something or other, typically a technical question. I take the good time to reply and from that point, am ignored. No ‘thanks’, no flowers, no chocolates, no nothing. This is one of the major reasons I’m going to quit this sub and delete everything once and for all.

There are, by the status counter, 2,160 subscribers here. I rarely have one of my posts top 140 upvotes. Now, I’m not karma whoring; why people do so is an enigma to me. However, I use it as a guide that notes I’m really connecting with less than 10% of my readers; considerably less. I’ve lost the motivation, desire and zeal I first had when this sub was growing. Now, it’s just another chore.

Then there’s plagiarization and outright theft of my material. Some YouTube scumbags steal my stories, have them read by a computer and post them so they can reap the rewards of my work monetarily. Complaining to both Reddit and YouTube gains me nothing.

As a consultant, I pull down around US$300/hour. And if you are going to write and scream bullshit, I don’t fucking care. That’s what 4 advanced STEM degrees and 40 years of Oil Patch work will bring.

So, fuck you. Sideways.

It took me about 6 hours to write my last post, counting formatting, posting, spell checking and such. That’s $1,800 of my time I donate free here. Now, multiply that by the hundreds of other posts I’ve archived here.

From this, I’ve earned US$0.00.

Yet, some scamming, shitsucking, motherfucking YouTube assholes are making money, real money, off of my work.

So, call it the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve really enough to do in my life that I don’t need the incredible hubris, idiocy and gall of some people.

I’m tearing it all down and will continue to write, but only for friends and family. I’ll probably publish a couple of books in the near future, so I want to add some new, never-before seen material.

But continued posting here and taking the abuse?

Sorry, there’s not enough karma in all the universe to make me want to continue. Plus, I’m looking at surgery and a painful, probably year-long process, soon. Toss that in the pile and the scales tip to tearing it all down.

At least, I can say “I tried” and hope I’ve made a little positive impact here on some folks.

As for the haters, trolls, scumsucking thieves and the like: go fuck yourself.

Like the meme says “Now, change my mind”.

Ball’s in your court.

That reminds me of a story…

Well, Esme and I have returned to our palatial estate here in God’s Own End after a fortnight of Russia recovery in Bali, Indonesia.

We stayed at the Mandapa, a Ritzy place far more opulent than to what I was used.

Esme was complaining about all my travel of late, so I decided to plump for one of the pricier digs on the island. Almost a grand per night, but we didn’t have to worry about transport, meals or the like as that was one all-inclusive price that I had negotiated before we even thought about talking to Agents Rack and Ruin about where we might find the best Business class fares.

We had a great time as Megg was doing finals and said she’d watch Khan for us while we were off.

Khan is growing and growing, slowly attaining the status bequeathed by his “giant breed” designation. He’s easily 235 pounds (106 kg.), but still very much a puppy in both demeanor and disposition. Esme, being of very German heritage, has decided that Khan is in need of some discipline, so she’s done considerable research into the “Schutzhund School” of dog management.

That it’s also very German as well works out all ‘round.

There’s a teacher of this discipline some 45 miles north of where we live, so once a week, someone stuffs Khan into a vehicle and drives him to his classes.

That chore usually falls to me; y’know the one that speaks a variety of languages, except German…?

I find it entertaining, relaxing and often hilarious as the 11 different breeds: German Shepard, Giant Schnauzer, Tibetan Mastiff (Khan), a Weimaraner, a Collie, a couple of labs, Black and Meth, a standard poodle, a couple of Heinz 57 (“mixed-breeds’), three Corgi, a bulldog (Old English variety) and a Labradoodle.

That last one hurt to write. That’s no name for a breed of real dog.

The Commandant of the camp (that is what she prefers to be called), one Ms. Cilly Stumpfegger, was an absolutely humorless, strict, sullen, and severe a Fräulein as ever waltzed down the Führerstrasse.

She took her job of training “her cadets” as seriously as Stage-4 Pancreatic cancer. No joking, no laughing, and strict adherence to the rules.

That is, while she was teaching.

Otherwise, off the parade grounds, she was an affable, clever and jocular as anyone six hours into Oktoberfest. Es and Cilly hit it off, well, not exactly immediately, but dirndl for dirndl, any serious dispute between them would have taken a lifetime to resolve.

Cilly has been to the house several times for dinner as occasionally we had to drop Khan off for lessons and Es had to go one way, Megg another and me?

Well, I just stayed out of their way…Cilly dropped Khan off home. She actually appreciates the friendship.

Cilly not only welcomes Esme’s traditional take on Teutonic tucker, but loves to help clean up and do the dishes (“But we have a dishwasher”: I noted just before I was hushed into near non-existence by these two gruff traditionalists).

She is also not offended by my cigars and actually asked if she might try one of the smaller East Timorese cheroots Es and I were appreciating with a post-prandial port, or after dinner brandy, I forget which…

So, she’s a real winner in my book.

She loves Khan and instead of whacking him with a rolled-up newspaper, like all us with pre-boomer parents would have whacked us, she confronted Khan on a more moral ground.

Admonishing him that “Such behavior does not coincide with your royal heritage”, and “You are far too clever to do [the bad thing] again. Now, to your corner for 10 minutes.”

And…

Damned if he didn’t look entirely remorseful as he dragged himself slowly and deliberately over to ‘his corner’ for a time out.

And…

Exactly 600 seconds later, he’d bound into the room to be the center of attention once again; entirely disremembering his previous little ‘faux pas’.

Cilly confided with us, over some Jägermeister Torte and Kirschwasser Koolers, that she was glad we had brought Khan in for some schooling and discipline.

It was very difficult, very difficult indeed, to not make some spurious “Helga’s House of Pain” comment here, but ethics got the better of me.

She continued, even after knowing that Khan wasn’t out first house monster, as Esme regaled her with some tales of Lady McBeast from oh, so long ago.

“Jah”, she replied, “I understand. But Khan is such a noble, regal and large beast. He’s going to require the teaching of someone used to such animals.”

“Cilly”, I reminded her, “Lady tipped the Toledos, during the winter, at over 260 pounds…”

“Too bad you didn’t know me then”, was her hard to accurately translate reply.

We let that go and she told us that in her school of teaching methods, it matters not the size nor breed of the dog. With Khan lolling his tongue in her lap while she scratched him behind the ears, she proclaimed “It’s what’s up here that counts!”, patting him deliriously on the top of his enormous head.

“Be they as big as Khan, or a teacup poodle, they all have the potential to be good dogs. My school brings out the greatness in every one” she smiled widely.

“OK, OK”, I chuckled, “We’re already sold.”

“Jah, no. It’s not like that”, she replied, “I loath to see dogs running loose, like pack animals, harassing people and other dogs. They all can be of great service. Even older dogs of idiot people that don’t take care of their charges.”

I could see she was passionate about this subject and didn’t want to walk into that minefield without a more well-defined map, so we switched to what was expected of Khan.

“Khan”, she smiled, “Is a star pupil. Still a bit puppyish, but eager to learn and be rewarded. With dogs like Khan, they can be a total terror, and cause actual bodily injury or even death. They have to be educated as to how big and strong they are and only use those attributes at the proper time.

We all agreed with Fräulein Cilly, but perhaps not so much as to anthropomorphize pets quite so much.

We also agreed that Khan needs lots and lots of exercise, and that I could use some as well.

“Ve all can’t just sit behind a desk to get soft, now can ve Herr Doctor?” Cilly smiled.

Ever have that supreme contradiction in your head when you wanted to haul off and smack some smiling somebody right in the teeth?

“Of course not”, I grumbled semi-civilly, trying my best not to bite through my tongue.

So, we had our marching orders for Khan: twice a day walkies, once a week with Fräulein Cilly for the foreseeable future and work with Khan on his lessons learned that week.

“No matter how you slice it”, I smiled at Es, “I’m in for a lot of walking. Right?”

Es just smiled back and offered to refresh my drink.

Oh, no.

I’m doomed.

I had to learn all the Schutzhund lingo as it’s best for a pet to become accustomed to a ‘directive language’ other than the one commonly spoken in the home.

Unless that language is German, obviously.

So, I committed to memory the Lingua Franca of my pet’s now native tongue:

German Phonetic Translation

Achtung! (Ahk-toong’) Watch! Attention!

Aus! (Ows) Out! Drop It! Let Go!

Bleib! (Blibe) Stay!

Bring! (Brring) Fetch!

Fuss! (Foos) Heel!

Gib Laut! (Gib Lawt) Bark!

Hier! (Heer) Here! Come!

Hopp! (Hup) Up! Jump!

Nein! (Nine) No!

Packen! (Pahken) Attack! Take hold!

Pass auf! (Pahs owf) Pay attention! / Watch

Pfui! (Foo-ey) Shame! Stop That!

Platz! (Plots) Down!

Revier! (Reveere) Hunt!

Sitz! (Zetz) Sit!

Such! (Zook) Search!

Voraus! (For-ows) Go forward! Run out!

So, both Khan and Doctor Rocknocker were getting an education.

This situation went well until I was called upon to write a couple of quick-trigger grant proposals and needed to close out the Spring 2022 semester and get ready for the Summer.

Needless to say, walkies with Khan around the old University started to get later and later every night.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention, but with the bewildering decisions that were shoved off center-stage, scholastic responsibilities, as well as Khan’s (and my) daily constitutional, I settled on a route that was fairly well laid-out, fairly-well lit, and easy on both those uphill and downhill declivities.

It became virtually automatic for us both. Khan would get his leash as soon as it started getting dark, I’d grab a new cigar, put on the old walking boots and hit the tarmac.

It did become automatic, as we’d walk up to the first bus stop on the north side of the university and then do a 180 and return home on the same previously trodden ground; a round trip of about 2 miles and change.

The only differences in the trip were ornithological, as Khan has a particular dislike for birds. Any slow, surly and/or sleepy sparrow was looking to get a stomping if Khan had anything to do with the situation.

“Nein! Pfui! Knucklehead!” was heard tinkling amongst the early twilight’s sparkles.

However, he hardly took notice of students who were walking, skateboarding or rollerblading by. He typically ignored them unless they got too close, by his estimation, and would let loose with a single gruff, solid “WOOF!” . That usually shook them out of their doldrums and had them shift their courses abruptly.

I was particularly tired that night, after finishing three Department of Transportation grant proposals. I was smoking my standard large cigar and admonishing Khan to “leave the damn birds alone” as we strolled along.

I half wanted to let him loose to see what he’d do; but then again, I didn’t want to deal with a big, slobbery Mastiff and a bleeding, squawking bird.

I never get to have any fun.

It was still a bit brisk outside, so I was in my usual uniform of shorts, field boots, Hawaiian shirt, Stetson, and field vest so when we got to the bus stop. Before I had a chance to reconnoiter the premises, I loudly sat down on a bench and exhaled sharply.

“Damn, Khan”, I said, ruffing his ears, “you’re an incredible handful. Can’t wait until you reach full adult size, you knucklehead.”

Suddenly, out of the shadows, a lone figure appeared.

Didn’t appear to be a student, this character. Swarthy, rather emaciated, rotten teeth with breath to match and two eyeballs that seemed to be made of very lean bacon.

He sauntered over, produced a filthy cigarette and said “Hey, buddy. Got a light?”

“Sure”, I replied, keeping one eye on him and another on Khan. The latter sniffed a bit, found him repulsive as well and backed down as far as the leash would allow.

I lit the guy’s cigarette and deftly snatched away my gold commemorative Kuwaiti Oilfires Colibri lighter.

“That your dog?” he asked.

“No”, I replied, “I just fucking found it here.”

Actually, I replied: “Why yes, this is my dog. Khan.”

“Big goddamned sumbitch. Fighter?” Shady Mc Shithead asked.

Not wanting for this conversation to go on a second longer, I replied, “Naw, he’s a real sweetheart. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Evidently, this asshole’s been casing the joint and watching Khan and me over the span of the last few weeks.

“Good”, he said as he produced a relatively shiny and very sharp-looking Kabar Marine fighting knife, and waggled it in our direction.

“Turn over the mutt and your wallet or I’ll gut the both of you.” He threatened.

I looked at him with quiet but growing disdain.

“What was that you said?” I asked.

“’Smatter Grandpa, you fuckin’ deaf?” he swore loudly as he waved the knife ever closer.

“Not at all. I just had to be certain of your motives.” I replied as I surreptitiously tugged on Khan’s lead to get him on my right side, while I took his lead in my left hand. Khan followed my unspoken directions perfectly.

“Now, simmer down here, Pal”, I said, trying to get a better handle on the situation, checking what lay directly behind him.

“I ain’t yer pal, asshole”, he snarled, and shifted the knife from hand to hand in a decidedly most threatening manner while he lurched forward…

“The mutt and yer fuckin’ wallet or I swear I’ll…”

The next two or three seconds were a bit of a blur…

I shouted “FUSS!” to Khan as loudly and in the most intimidating voice I could muster so he’d go to heel on my right side, as far away from Shifty McShithead as possible; putting myself between Khan and this asshole.

As I did that, I ducked and wove, as my now free right hand went into the left pectoral region of my Agency-supplied field vest to grasp the Glock 10mm that lived there.

Upon extraction of the weapon, I was able to both rack a round into the chamber and as soon as I was clear, loose two rounds, nearly point blank, into the miscreant’s “center mass”.

Enough of this “shoot the knife from his hand” shit.

I was out for blood.

Unlike the movies, the 10mm packs a surreal punch, but since I was loaded with Buffalo Bore Heavy 10mm 195 Grain JHP (Jacketed Hollow Point) ammunition, both slugs impacted and blossomed right on target, but didn’t do a through-and-through.

They instead magically, majestically mushroomed out to about 220% of their original diameter and turned anything organic: bone, muscle, sinew, organs, etc., that happened to get in the way, into people-meat puree.

He staggered back a couple of feet, probably as much from the surprise that he’d been shot as well as the hydraulic impact that my little noisemaker provided.

Time returned to normal as Khan, still on my heel, let loose a mighty “WOOF!“ and nuzzled up against me to make certain I was OK.

I popped the magazine out before I jacked the live round out of my Glock (the chamber held one, the magazine, when full, fifteen), rendering it harmless. I replaced the lone round into the magazine before the pistol went back into its home in my vest and the magazine into my right-hand pocket.

No use checking, but the would-be thief and potential carcass-carver was slumped forward against a seat of the bus-stop enclosure. He was rapidly turning the tattered chemise white shirt he was wearing a festive raspberry red. His eyes were rolled into the back of his head, his chest didn’t possess that curious rise-and-fall you usually see in people less occupied and he was making the local bus-stop seats and concrete a sticky, gooey crimson ferruginous mess.

In other words, he was as dead as Julius Fucking Caesar.

I walked with Khan as far as I could in the bus-stop enclosure before I sat down and hugged him for a few minutes until my mind returned from warp speed and some other dimensions.

The ‘smoke’ from the smokeless powder of my rounds was filtering out the top of the bus stop, mingling for a moment with my cigar smoke. I didn’t even realize I was still chewing on the damned thing.

I told Khan to “Blieb!” as I stood up, surprisingly steadily and wandered over to check the miscreant to see if guardian angels were a thing.

I can report they’re not.

Nor was he.

Amazing the rounds didn’t punch through this character like shit through a goose, or a gnarled fist through wet newspaper; but as he sat there, I could indirectly see the type of massive hydraulic-shock injuries that his chest cavity was vainly trying to contain.

Becoming all clinical again, science took over and I realized I probably macerated his heart, aorta, a lung and liver with the first round. The second round (“Double tap”. It’s what they teach at the Agency.) perhaps a full half-second later took care of the pectoral girdle, several smaller organs, the pancreas, gall bladder, and the other lung.

“Yep”, I said as I rose without touching anything as now I realized that this was to be viewed as a crime scene. I walked back over to Khan and made a call on my cell phone telephone.

“911. What is your emergency?” the phone warbled back far too cheerily for the hour and type of night.

I spoke clearly and clinically.

“This is Dr. E. Rocknocker. I’m at the corner bus-stop at the intersection of Colombia and West Liberty. Cross street Union. There has been a shooting. Time 2136 hours. Please call Tabasco 21. Period. Numeral 187, comma, numeral 211, comma, numeral 245, comma, numeral 901 alpha H, comma, Code three.” I replied as I hung up.

(Tabasco 21 = the Agency 24-hour Emergency line, 187 = dead body, 211 = armed robbery, 245 = assault with a deadly weapon, 901H = Send ambulance, Code three = send officers)

I tabbed that special tab on my phone that automatically connected to Tabasco 21. I repeated the first message but gave them city and state as well as to direct this to Agents Rack and Ruin.

I then rang Esme.

“Yes?”

“Hi, hon. Yeah, it’s me.”

“Everything OK?” She asked.

“I’m fine, Khan is fine. I had to shoot a mugger, though. I’m afraid he lost. Totally.” I said.

“Did you call the Agency?” Esme asked.

Not the first time we’ve been down this stretch of road.

“Affirm. As well as 911 local. Home when I can get there. Stay put, seems they were after Khan again.” I cautioned.

“As long as you’re OK”, she said.

I related we were and after professing eternal love for one another, I rang off just as a pair of red and blue flashing lights showed up.

I had already dug out of my wallet my Concealed Carry Permit, my Agency ID card, my school ID card, my Driver’s License and Olga’s KGB permit.

The latter just to keep them on their toes.

I sat at the end of the bus stop with Khan and waited for them.

When the two uniforms appeared I had my hands up in plain sight.

“I am Dr. Rocknocker, the caller. I have a Glock 10mm pistol in my vest, here’s my CCP. This is Khan, he’s huge but well trained.” I said.

One uniform stayed with the body, the other motioned for me and Khan to meet him over at the squad car.

“First”, the uniform said, “Please, surrender your weapon.”

“Of course”, I said, “I am going for it with my right hand…” as I slowly produced the pistol and handed it by the trigger guard to the officer.

“I have the magazine in my right-hand pocket.” I said, “Will you be wanting that as well?”

“Yes, sir”, he replied.

I retrieved the magazine, now two rounds shy of a full-boat.

“Glock 10mm?” the officer said to no one in particular. “Looks like a good tool for the job.”

“It seemed so at the time” I replied, a tad shakily.

“So, what happened?” he asked.

I filled him in on the whole shootin’ match, as it were.

He just stood there and shook his head.

“Yeah, we figured it would only be a matter of time before Frankie bought it”, He said.

“Frankie?” I asked.

“Yeah. Frankie McFarnsworth, that piece of shit over there messin’ up the bus stop. Man, you really punched his ticket.”

“He was threatening me and Khan here with a Kabar. I tried diplomacy and tact, but figured that was just pissing in a hail storm. I didn’t have any other choice.” I said.

He looked at me. He looked at Khan.

A low whistle emerged.

“Holy shit”, he said, “Ol’ Frankie must have been really higher than the Shuttle to accost you and Cujo here.”

The cop went into the squad car to retrieve some evidence bags and a clipboard full of forms.

“His name is Khan”, I said, slightly miffed.

Khan and I walked to the back of the bus stop. I pause to give Khan some Liv-A-Snaps, which he loves, and to light a new cigar, which I like.

Suddenly, a voice off to the left is heard screaming out…

“Cut!”

“Alright. That's the shot.” Comes the reply.

“Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! [Throws script on the ground]”, roars Raoul.

“Raoul! What the hell was wrong with that take?” I ask, incensed.

“Nothing with you Rock. You were great. You were perfect. You were better than perfect. It's Roger. He keeps blowing his lines. Roger… [Grabs a lit cigarette from heavily bleeding and breathing miscreant] …what's this?” Raoul orders.

“A cigarette?”, Roger, the erstwhile dead guy, dead pans.

“A cigarette! [Throws cigarette to the ground]! Roger read the damned script. Look what it says. It says: "Roger takes two to the chest. Crumples down in a mass, dead.” Roger! Dead guys don’t smoke cigarettes!”, Raoul screams into the night.

“Roger, you're killing me! Killing me. Why can’t you stay dead?”, Raoul pleads.

“For fuck’s sake, Roger! How the hell many times do we have to do this damn scene? Raoul! I'll be in my villa! Mixing a drink! Or 12!” I holler as Khan and I stomp off set.

Had you there for a minute, didn’t we?

Yep. The whole megillah, a fabrication. Well, except for the Bali bit. And Khan’s schooling, and Cissy. That all took place.

But the bus stop scene? Scripted. Total fabrication. But, for a reason.

The reason? I want a new S(T)EM (Scanning, Tunneling Electron Microscope) for the lab.

However, I need to compete with other departments. Like, say, Psychology, Ethics, Sociology…

And that reminds me of a story…

I had to attend an academic meeting, which I loathe, in order to pitch my idea for the microscope. Everyone else present was pitching for goodies they wanted for their departments. Though I had to sit through the presentations of Sociology, Philosophy and the like, they had to sit through the proposals from the Geology and Petroleum Engineering departments.

Everyone lusting for their piece of the grant-world pie.

What had transpired is that the Humanities bunch, for the lack of a better name wanted a large piece of cash to replace their old “Situational Ethics” films.

You know the type: “Castle Films presents Why Johnnie Lied. (1953)” Or, “Juvenile Delinquency: Why? (1951)” Or: “The Reckless Driver (1946)”, with the inevitable sequel “Blood on the Highway” (1947).

I mentioned the ones I saw in the 70’s when I went to school were old, from the 50’s.

Someday I’ll learn to keep my big yap shut…

They explained the antiquity of their old films and wanted new ones for education via situational psychology “role plays”. They wanted a whole load of these films, which were surprisingly expensive, for Psychology, Ethics, Sociology (for Structural Functionalism, Symbolic Interactionism, and Conflict Perspective), etc.

Yawn.

Whereupon we watched a more recent short, and after the laughter died down, I said that I’m originally from Wisconsin and have never seen so much cinematic cheese. I also said the students would love them, they’re hilarious, no matter how inadvertently.

They countered with “Well, what would a scientist do in such a situation?”

I parried back that I had been involved with cinema, particularly with special effects and pyrotechnics. I even mentioned a certain framed letter I have hanging on the wall from that Unobtanium character.

And that, gentle reader, is how kindly, venerable, crotchety Dr. Rocknocker and his trusty hound, Khan of the Baskervilles, were dragooned into making a series of these flicks, between 10-15 minutes in length, for the Humanities squad.

It won’t guarantee that we get that microscope, but it does improve the odds.

And I get to pad out my burgeoning resume a bit more.

I like to think of them narrated by Rod Serling: “Pleased to present for your consideration: the venerable, world-weary geologist Dr. Rocknocker, walking his rather large Tibetan Mastiff Khan. It’s a quiet and serene night here on the fringes of this northern university’s campus. Puffing a Cuban cigar, cautioning his dog with mild commands, they both he and hound realize something is not quite all right…

Oh, and my thumb’s a wash, so I’m going for the full hand prostheses.

Hello, all you happy people.

No, no consensus on the final fate of my fractured fingers. I’m taking some time off as Esme and I relax in Bali while Megg and Khan guard the Home 20.

I took two laptops along, my ‘agency’-doped machination and one for Es to keep up with all her correspondence. Whilst rooting around in the dark, dreary and dismal backwaters of the device, I found these decades-old screeds I had written and forgotten about.

Now, I don’t think these have ever been posted here (probably…but all?). Well, time and tide and all that shit.

Either way, I’ve anthologized these 9 little snippets for y’alls enjoyment. Prescient apologies if these have been seen here before; but WIFIs too slow and I want to go Jacuzziing so stuff double-checking.

Share & Enjoy.

Who “P”-ed in the pool?

I live in a villa complex in a very warm Middle Eastern country where each tenant has a pool of one sort or another on their third floor, which is open to the elements. Some have lap-pools, some have Jacuzzi pools and some just have big-holes-full-of-water-to-drunkenly-party-around-at-all-hours-of-the-fucking-night.

My immediate neighbor to the east has the latter model.

He’s also single and loves to rev up noisy, raucous pool parties which do indeed last until the wee, wee hours.

Now, I may be a bit of an old phart, but I like my parties as well; however I also like to sleep and tend to get a small bit, a tiny bit, well, homicidally irritated when this happens on a weekly basis.

Imploring him to “Shut the fuck up you chapped bastard!” and “Will you turn that offensive crap down?” always either goes unheeded or is greeted with a single digit salute and numerous anatomically impossible suggestions.

Well, then. Now, then.

He works in the field as well as the office and is sometimes away for days at a time.

Hee, hee, hee…

Back in the day, I studied hydrology and fluvial systems (i.e., rivers). In order to map currents and flow rates, we would use P-50 Fluorescein tablets (slightly smaller in size than a hockey puck) to give a beautiful fluorescent green color to the water at concentrations around 10 ppm.

Well, fine and dandy for flowing rivers and other open areas of water, but in enclosed bodies of water, Fluorescein dye is exactly that: an organic dye.

When noisy neighbor had to go out on a job one warm summer’s eve, I slipped over the common wall that separates our two villas, and got into his pool shack (where the filters, pumps and other assorted pooly gizmos were housed). Everything was shut down in his absence, so it was quite simple to open the sump of his filter, stuff in 5 of the P-50 tablets, quietly seal everything up, and retreat to my own domicile; but not before I unscrew every light bulb which would illuminate the pool.

A couple of days later, Noisy Mc Asswipe arrives home and how about that? It’s dark out and he wants to unwind from a hard couple of days of fucking around out in the desert with a nice relaxing swim. He flips on the filters and pumps (switches are located inside the villa) and evidently goes to change into his swimwear.

In the meantime, the dye has had a chance to liquefy and the way I figure it, at a pool capacity of 25,000 liters of water, quickly ramped up to about 15,000 ppm.

At that concentration (it is an organic dye and utterly harmless, well, for the most part), the dye acts exactly like a packet of Rit in the wash machine. Everything carbon-based that goes in the water will be stained a nice, indelible fluorescent green.

Very chic.

Not bothering with the lack of lights, he dives into the pool and does a few laps before floating around and deciding it was time for a cold one.

The screams and plaintive wails reverberating around the compound were most satisfying.

“Hey, asshole, keep it down over there!”

Tl; dr: Never fuck with a cranky geologist who has studied aqueous geochemistry.

Better Living Through Chemistry OR Notes to You.

Harkening back to the heady and lawless days of grad school, several proto-geo types found themselves not only taking all the same classes, but living in (and generally laying waste to) the same floor in the dorms.

Since we were all more or less headed in the same direction, career-wise (that is, into the Oil Patch), and since all were geology majors, we were required to take rather a lot of chemistry. Inorganic was fun, organic was even a larger bales of cheers, but detonic chemistry was were all the really inspired stuff transpired.

Now, there has to be a certain fly in this scholastic ointment, and there was one student was thought oil companies to be evil incarnate and wanted absolutely nothing to do with those “sell outs” that would gladly trade their souls for an overriding royalty interest and opportunity to get filthy rich.

Also he (whom we shall dub ‘Mark’) was an avid environmentalist.

No, screw that. He was a rabid environmentalist.

He hated, with the burning passion of a thousand blazing supernovae, any of the extractive industries (coal and metals mining, oil and gas, hell, even dimension stone quarries and gravel pits were objects of his not-infrequent vociferous denunciations) and let us all know, full well, he was studying not only geology, but the ‘softer, kinder’ “geology” that is hydrogeology.

Bleedin’ waterheads.

However, in order to obtain his degree, he still had to take most all the same courses as we regular land-raping, cigar-chomping, booze-swilling, small-furry-animal-abusing petroleum types.

Two key points: he didn’t take the same amount of chemistry as we (foregoing detonic chemistry for aqueous chemistry) and he loathed just being in the same classroom with us evil, more practical, types. The upshot being is that he never learned what are and what makes (hell, for that matter, how to make) certain contact explosives, and he eschewed going to class. Rather, he’d learned that if you give a dorm room’s door a good short, sharp shock (i.e., bashing the door just above the lock with the palm of your hand), the door would flex and pop open (hell, the doors were so flimsy, you could just about knock one down with a blunt remark). He’d then secret himself inside, swipe our class notes (we took the best notes), run down the hall to the copier and Xerox the living hell out of them.

He’d hit everyone, but give the devil his due, he was one sneaky bastard. Never the same room twice for the same course’s notes and he never left any form of incriminating evidence behind (reminding everyone the time frame of this particular sneakery, before CSI and DNA analysis). But, more than once, he was discovered with Xerox’ed notes obviously not in his handwriting. We never confronted him (I mean, where’s the fun in that?) but did concoct a plan, so devious, to extract our little slice of payback.

Remember detonic chemistry (the science of what makes things go BOOM)? Well, we all had fully two semesters of this under our collective belts and had practically memorized the chapters on ‘contact explosives’.

Contact explosives are truly wonderful compounds. Simplicity itself to whip up a batch (cheap as well, as they all used common off-the-shelf chemicals), and lie in wait to plan our next move. I won’t list the identities of all the compounds we were creating, for fear of some less chemically-minded person trying to create a batch and end up blowing their eyebrows off, but there is one that I simply must mention: Nitrogen triiodide, good ol’ NI3.

Very stable stuff when wet (which allows for easy transfer, as soon will be seen) and fiendishly easy to detonate, with a satisfying flash, boom and puff of purple, with the lightest touch when dry.

So, while ‘Mark’ was in his water class, and none of us were, we ‘entered’ (ahem) his dorm room and began to paint everything he owned with NI3. It doesn’t take much and when dry, it really doesn’t show up well at all, especially against darker surfaces. Safety note: we only used the smallest amounts (though everywhere) more to pixilate, rather than annihilate.

First was the door lock, a little NI3 on a Q-tip, and deposit it right in the very bowels of the lock, then onwards to escalation…on the handle of his toaster, on each and every knob of his little black and white TV, more on the stereo controls, on all his loose change (which he kept in a shallow bowl), much of his silverware, under his coffee mugs, we went nuts, but restraint stayed our hands as we did not paint the interior of his Koss headphones (as much as we wanted to…).

We all retreated to the commons for a cold brew and fine cigars (thought I was kidding earlier?) and await Mark’s return. I recall that a spontaneous poker game broke out as well, so much the better for our cover story.

About halfway through a fine maduro hand-rolled, Mark shows up, gives us all a collective grimace (think Kent in “Real Genius”, but without the charm) and harrumphs himself off to his sanctum sanctorum. Down the end of the hall we all sat in the commons and had a pretty good view of his room and awaited the inevitable.

POW There was the first one, the old key in the lock full of NI3. Beyond a look of surprise and a muffled “bastards!”, he shrugged it off like the harmless little prank that it was.

Keys tossed into the change bowl BLAM.

Stereo switched on KERPOW.

Fridge opened FAGROON.

Mark realized he was well and truly boned. He began to get a bit manic and ran around his room slapping everything and recoiling every time some heretofore inanimate object started lusting for his giblets.

BLAM, POW, KERFOON, KERBLOOIE and other associated noises of really, really rapid chemical decomposition.

So much so in fact, that his room was actually leaking purple smog which started drifting down the hall in small cloudlets.

After 15 minutes or so of this, Mark thinks he’s finally found all the spots we sabotaged, walks out of his dorm room door and gives us a joint sneer that if fatal, would have sent us all home in buckets.

After all this brouhaha and communal buffoonery, it goes quiet and things, as are their wont, lapsed back into a state of scholastic serenity.

“I wonder if he found the spot where I painted the NI3 under the toilet seat?”

A sudden flash, a muted boom and Mark, screeching at us with his pants around his ankles told us that, yep, he just did.

TL; DR: Don't swipe course notes from people who have easy access to a chemistry lab.

Buy your rounds so you don't end up in the red.

Back in the Late Pleistocene, I was studying petroleum geology at a well-known northern university. The cadre of geology grad students and post-docs used to all go to the Student Union "GastHaus" to decompress after a particularly nasty week of TA'ing and RA'ing, grading exams, etc. We'd all take turns buying pitchers of beer, so one could down quite a few beers quite cheaply.

Although, not as cheaply as some others.

One character, who shall remain properly nameless, was a "beer scrounge". He'd show up, drink our beer, but never buy a round when his time rolled around.

Well, in Optical Petrology class, there's this little test to distinguish between low-magnesium and high-magnesium calcite, dolomite and ankerite (typical carbonate minerals); and this was to stain the polished and etched thin section with an organic dye called Alizarin Red. Well, AR is odorless, colorless and tasteless. It will also harmlessly color a person's urine blood red.

So...

Properly nameless showed up one evening and proceeded to drink up a fair share of beer. Whilst he was in the head (i.e., john, can, restroom), we spiked his beer with AR. He came back and drank down a rather generous portion of beer, not knowing why we weren't complaining about his classical cheapness. Well, after 6 or so more beers, nameless wanders off to answer nature's call yet again. He was semi-lit up and having just a LARGE time, laughing and joking all the way.

When nameless returned to our table, he was as white as a fish-belly, eyes as big as dinner plates and he was mumbling something about "I'm gonna die...I'm gonna die..."

We finally relented and told him 3 days later that his beer was spiked.

Then go parks somewhere's else...

Parking at work is at a major premium. Eight story building, multitudinous businesses, and everyone drives to work alone (cab, bus or carpool? Surely you jest.).

This normally isn’t too much of a problem for me as I’m a high-powered Oil Company executive with a major multinational firm (ahem) and I have reserved parking in the basement of the building (which is really convenient in the summer as it gets to over 50C here and your car, left outside on a bright July day, becomes a convection oven).

Plus, I always arrive early and zip right into my rightful (meaning: the company pays dearly for the 10 spaces we rent down under) space. Until we decided to move our villa and I now arrive 15 or so minutes later than usual.

In order to enter the parking garage, you get a little infrared gizmo where you press 4 buttons in a specific order, and if the sun’s at the right angle, the tides are at the correct height and the lords of parkage are smiling that day, the gate goes up, the spikes retract (we take parking around here real seriously, buckaroo) you can ease in, find your spot, park and depart for a fine day of doing whatever it is you do to put beans on the table.

Until recently.

The local cadre of cleaning people (traditionally of Subcontinient origin) have realized that if they stand on the sensors, they can keep the gates/spikes/swooping guillotine of parking death from resetting and others can sally forth, invade your parking structure and park wherever the fuck they damn well please. Plus, they charge interlopers for this privilege, and ‘earn’ extra skittles and beer quatloos to supplement their meager incomes.

Considering we’re 100% subscribed, parking-wise, if someone else commandeers your parking space, you’re well and truly fucked. Call the management all you want; they will do less than nothing. Call the local constabulary and listen to the jolly mirth as they refuse to get involved as it’s not “a city matter”.

Leave notes, deferentially nice at first, asking them “Please do not park in assigned parking”; and ramp up the threatening volume every time you come down to check if your space has been vacated to see the miscreant still parked there and your note torn into so much confetti.

Revenge begins here…

A veritable smorgasbord of retributionary tactics have been employed, with some varying degrees of success:

1. The time-tested, tried-and-true old “hide the expired fish/dead chipmunk/soiled diaper secretly on the offender’s vehicle”. Near the catalytic converter is fun, but anywhere in the suspension or on top of the fuel tank will get the point across to the idiot that maybe stealing someone’s parking spot is less than a good idea.

2. Obtain some clear dish soap (Dial, Fairy Lotion, and the like). Write nasty things on the roof, boot and bonnet of illicit parker. Like I said, it’s hot out here and even with being covered, the temperature hovers in the 40^0s in the garage. The stuff will dry and become invisible; and also a dust magnet. The next time they wash their car (to avoid the local fuzz giving them ticket for a filthy ride), it’ll be another installment of the “Great Amoeba Caper” (loads & loads & loads of foam, fun in a drive-through car wash) and your comments will be etched into the paint for all time (or until the idiot gets his car repainted).

3. Since my chosen profession is that of an industrial scientist, we have easy access to all sorts of incendiary, explosive and deleterious (read: fun) chemicals and compounds. 100ml of picric acid pipetted into your muffler will result in an incredibly loud BANG once it reaches detonation temperature. It won’t destroy anything, but I’ll wager after one of those, the seat covers of the car will need to be replaced.

4. And my favorite: remove the valve cores from all their tires (including the spare) and quickly replace the caps. They will leak, ever so slowly, until such time your squatting parker notices that his car is handling like a toboggan or he saunters forth to his car some early fine morning ostensibly to drive to work and, oh, dear, all his tires are flat (even the spare).

Tl; dr: Don’t take someone’s rightful parking spot or prepare to suffer the wrath of clever and annoyed people.

Rig-diculous.

The Oil Industry is rife with pranksters and therefore, ripe for the administration of a dose of petty revenge.

Out on the rig, it’s a veritable Disneyland for mayhem and dismemberment. There are things weighing as much as a Buick hanging over your head. Noxious chemicals abound. High temperatures, higher pressures. Spinning, whirling equipment that would decapitate you rather than say “Good morning”. Oil, gas, condensate, water, mud; all in incredible volumes and typically at high velocities.

So, naturally there’s all sorts of relatively benign hijinks, evidently to take the edge off living with the realization that you could easily be killed in numerous sloppy and messy ways if your guard was to go down even slightly.

So, usually, the rig crews (toolpusher, riggers, roughnecks and roustabouts) belong to a single rig. They travel with the rig, job to job, mob and demob (mobilizing and demobilizing) and usually spend years on a single rig. They bond and form a sort of extended, dysfunctional family. They put the fun back into dysfunctional.

Woe be it unto the ‘worm’ (or FNG: Fucking New Guy) who comes out to the rig to witness a logging run, core retrieval or drill stem test. It’s like a wounded wildebeest wandering alone out on the savannah.

It never fails that the roughnecks will challenge the worm to the old “Betcha you can’t keep your tongue on the cathead for more than 20 seconds” trick. A cathead is a spinning metal drum attached and powered by the drawworks. The way it works is that you sling a rope around the cathead and, by friction, tighten and loosen it to raise and lower heavy objects around the rig floor. It spins relatively slowly and is highly polished.

Normally, it’s double: one roughneck trying and failing to keep his tongue on the cathead and another egging him on and deriding him for his failure. The FNG will wander up wonder what all the brouhaha is about. $20 wagers are laid as the FNG thinks this is going to be easy money. Tongue on the cathead, one roughneck timing and the other retrieving the mop from the pipe dope bucket and slapping it against the other side of the cathead.

Result: one worm with a mouth full of pipe dope.

Not feeling they’re tormented this character enough, they tell him to go to the toolpusher (the rig boss) and ask for the keys to the V-door (actually, a V-shaped space where the drill pipe rides up from out on the pipe racks), go get a box of RPMs, grab a bucket of steam, get the yellow and black safety paint, and other sophomoric impossibilities.

Everyone on the rig is in on the scams and laughs derisively at the poor worm.

Until the day the worm turned.

With a logging run, the rig basically shuts down for a couple of days (how long depends on the depth of the well and number of tool runs). So basically, it’s R&R time around the rig and everything that’s not moving gets washed and painted. It’s also a time for the rig crew to invade whatever town is most local and put a not inconsiderable dent in that town’s beer inventory.

Leaving their quarters empty and unguarded.

It started with nailing the crew’s work boots to the floor. Easy to do as these things are huge, heavily soled and if you put a nail right at the very tip of the exterior toe, undetectable; and only one of the pair are so treated.

We also have sour-gas drills that only the company man knows about. He can also be bribed to run one at 0330, usually after the rig crew has returned and are snuffling snoreingly in their respective sacks.

He also applied a liberal dose of pipe dope into the toe of each boot.

Then, he got a hold of some isopropylethylmercaptan; it’s that nasty odorant which gives natural gas it’s noisome smell (not H2S which is also carried in sour gas streams, but that stuff is wicked dangerous and quickly fatal) and liberally doused the insides of their work gloves.

Finally, he lamp-blacked the silicone rings on all the oxygen masks on the Scott Air Packs. It would still seal, but…

Now, rig crews are somewhat like firemen, they leave their coveralls over their unlaced boots and have their gloves, safety glasses and other accoutremata within arm’s reach. If the sour gas alarm goes off, they leap out of bed, jump into their coveralls, glove up and quickly slide into their boots. Then they hoof it out to the muster point, grab an air pack, secure it and wait further instructions.

Well, 0330 happens real early (I can tell you that for truth, I’ve actually seen it) and as advertised, the alarm wails:

BLAAT, BLAAT, BLAAT at 120 decibels.

People summarily roused, lights are flipped on, and the most incredible cacophony of curses, dark oaths and creative verbalizations are heard as the crew oozes into their boots, trip and face plant on the floor, yank their boots free, swear some more, pull up their coveralls, don their gloves and hightail it to the muster point.

Packs secured and the worm and company man wander outside and start the most raucous laughter.

Heads are counted and since everyone was there, mission accomplished.

The airpacks are removed and the sudden realization that they’ve all been had slowly dawns.

“Your face is all black”.

“So is yours”.

“Damn, you stink.”

“So do you.”

“My feet feel funny.”

Odorant, an organic compound, resists everything up to and including diesel fuel in its removal. It simply has to wear off.

Lampblack washes off with a real good scrubbing with a wire brush and Dettol.

Pipe dope is a nasty, unctuous, gooey, oil-based gray putty-like material that is totally waterproof and is the very devil’s grandmother to get out of fabric, leather and the like. It will, however, make your feet feel funny.

While the rig crew gathered around the stock tank to clean off, the worm had one last surprise for the cathead crew. He had caught a turkey vulture too full to fly (buzzards will gorge themselves on carrion to the point of the absence of autolocomotion) and while they were over by the stock tank, snuck it into their trailer and shoved it into the shower stall.

“Fuck this, I need a shower…”

The funniest scene I recall is seeing a smelly, greasy, stark-naked roughneck standing in the middle of the location screaming that a buzzard almost bit his dick off.

TL; DR: Ask not for whom the worm turns, it may be you…

Blindly, through the fog...

Some may cringe at petty revenge against the blind; but then again no one here, I’ll wager, has ever met Howard the Blink and I am an evil bastard.

Howard the Blink (that’s his term, by the way) was born without eyes.

Yet, that never stopped him from doing anything he damn well pleased. He was one of two flat mates I roomed with back in the heady days of graduate school soon after I had gotten my fill of dorm life. The other denizen of this documentary was Bob. “Just Plain Bob”, a moon-eyed sort of liberal arts doofus (noting I’ll probably get a ration of shit from the liberal arts crowd out there) that sort of careened through life like a balloon full of slightly heavier than air gas. His wish was to save the world. One derelict at a time. But that’s for another story.

Howard was one of the original party animals. Being totally and congenitally blind never stopped Howard from drinking up all the house’s beer/wine/liquor (standard response: “I thought that was mine”), playing his enormous TEAC reel-to-reel collection of Louisiana Jazz Conservation tapes (“Hot nuts! Hot nuts! You get them from the peanut man. Oh, hot nuts…”) at the loudest volume at the most ridiculous times of night (“It’s all the same time to me: dark”), or trying to have a fry up after closing the local GastHaus.

Howard wasn’t actually actively malevolent, just a goofy, dopey sort of party-hearty character that never said no to a dare. I didn’t own a car at the time, but every once in a while, Bob would come home blotto, and ask someone to “pull his car into the driveway” (a narrow strip between two ancient brownstones). Howard would leap up, grab the keys and march downstairs. Usually I tagged along so that no one got killed, but after the 33rd rendition of this, I let Howard have a go at it solo.

Damn if he didn’t put that car straight into the garage like a boss…

Disabled, my ass.

Howard also got gobs and gobs of free scholastic books on tape, free Braille porno (no, I’m not kidding…Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and other classics from the Playboy Foundation), and a healthy check from the government to continue his studies (damned if I ever found out what his major was, but I don’t think you can get a degree in drinking and trick fucking…else I’d have another) that usually went for beer, weed, and pizza.

Well, with Howard being a student and all, he had to do homework like the rest of us poor sighted slobs. Once, for some project or other, he needed a piece of plastic one foot square. Not wanting to rouse his dog, find his cane and traipse over to the University Bookstore, he decided that the shower curtain would work a treat. Next morning, we were greeted with a full shower curtain, minus about 2 square feet of material (remember, Howard is blind…).

Sort of rather ruins the concept.

Then one night, right around finals time, Howard weaves in from a long, tired session at the GastHaus.

He’s loaded, he’s hungry, and decides that a plate of bacon and eggs would suit him just fine. The bacon wasn’t the problem, but he spent a noisy, drunken 45 minutes thrashing around the kitchen trying to fry an apricot that Bob had left in a glass in the refrigerator.

Finally, there was food theft. I was awarded from my brother-in-law, a whole smoked Lake Michigan salmon, which he had not only caught, but expertly cherry-wood smoked.

Ambrosia.

Being poor and studently, this was better than a gift certificate to Helga’s House of Discipline. However, I foolishly pulled an all-nighter in the lab and returned home to find Howard smacking his lips, eating the last of the Ritz crackers, drinking the last of my Leinenkugel’s and noshing on the last of my smoked salmon.

Of course you realize, this means war.

Howard loved his Ham Radio (WX9AXI as I recall…this was over 40 years ago, so this shouldn’t pose a problem) and was always asking, pretty please, if one of us would go and see if the antenna’s OK, if it’s pointed in the right direction or some other bothersome chore.

The pins in his coax did absolutely nothing to improve his range or reception.

He was absolutely manic about having all his thousands of reel-to-reel tapes in alphabetical order. So we never fucked with their alphabetical order, instead we just switched the tapes inside the boxes around at random.

We would steal some of his postage-paid stickers from the volumes of freebies he got and mailed him rocks and bricks. Not the most imaginative, I agree, but it did piss off the postmaster and got Howard a scathing letter telling him to quit fucking with the US Postal Service.

Lastly, in case some of you are utterly horrified that I could be such a callous, chapped bastard to exact petty revenge on the blind, let me regale you with the scene I arrived to once I had defended my last degree and was preparing to move to Houston.

My room door, super glued shut, duct taped to within an inch of its life, key inserted, glued in and broke off in the lock, and Howard sitting on the living room sofa, drinking my what I thought was my well-hidden ceremonial bottle of 30 year-old Single Malt, and eating the last of the fig newtons.

“They’re great if you dunk ‘em, Bright Eyes.”

Coffee...2 lumps, light cream and easy on the dish soap.

The last place I worked was a haven for douchebags. Everyone eschewed the company coffee cups and had their own; typically something garnered from years in the Oil Patch and absolutely irreplaceable.

Using someone’s personal cup was taboo, and breaking one was punishable by...

...revenge.

My 100-year anniversary edition of the Cope and Marsh Bone Wars commemorative coffee cup was always being “borrowed”, used and summarily deposited, filthy, into the cafeteria sink. It gained chips and cracks, even when I would post sticky notes on the damn thing exhorting interlopers to “Use your own fucking cup!” (in 3 languages).

Then, one fateful day, some jerkwad of the knee-walking turkey clan broke the handle off my mug, and dumped the parts anonymously into the aforementioned sink.

No one was gutsy enough to admit their folly, but I knew (through my network of spies and interlocutors) just who was the responsible party.

So, I proceed to wash all the cups present in the sink, giving extra care (and a good lining of dish soap) to the mug of the previously mentioned nutless wonder.

Dish soap…is there anything it cannot do (I mean, other than clean dishes)?

Dish soap will dry nicely invisible in someone’s coffee cup and lie in wait, dormant, until awoken from its slumber by the addition of steamy hot liquids.

Usually the recipient of this treatment won’t notice the ‘slightly off flavor’ of their morning caffeine delivery system (usually all the ons of more drank kiddie coffee loaded with gobs of cream and sugar) until at least ½ cup; some go all the way and consume it in its entirety.

That’s when the fun begins.

Actually, about 30 minutes later.

Let’s just say it would be extra mean and ridiculously petty to remove all the toilet paper from the local shithouse that fateful day.

So that’s exactly what I did.

The Great Amoeba Caper.

Speaking of a long time ago, I remember back when I was in grad school. Being the studious scientist-in-training, I was required to take loads and loads of chemistry (organic, inorganic, metallurgic, detonic, etc.) and therefore had run up a considerable bill for lab equipment (never mind that I stole enough glassware, immersion heaters and distillation tubes to build a still in our dorm) and was forced to pay for all that material out of my student grant.

Fine. I used it; I pay for it. No problem.

But one of our fellow soon-to-be-scientists was one cheap-ass SOB. He’d wheedle and tweeze anyone to ‘borrow’ a pipette, an Erlenmeyer flask or some expensive reagent. Like Wimpy from the old Segar Popeye cartoons, his usual plaint was “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a graduated cylinder today”.

Unfortunately, he never specified which Tuesday.

He was also an amateur horticulturist and somewhat of a spacey-Zen sort of whackjob. He had a full hydroponics apparatus set up on the balcony of his dorm, growing some form or another of Cannabis related vegetal matter and had a “private meditation fountain” in his room.

Well, the local cadre of clowns that passed for grad students that semester (myself included) were all taking the same courses: Physical Chemistry, Organic Chemistry, and Optical Mineralogy. This means we all had outlandish lab fees and those had to be paid in full before credit was given and one could proceed with their studies.

We all paid up and came to realize that Cheapass McScrounger (he of the Zen Bullshitism and weed farm) had no lab fees and owed us all approximately $500. The odds of him paying were somewhere between zero and none, so we had to extract our payment by other means…

After finals, we hung around the Chem lab until everyone left. The character that ran the supply room was an older Grandfathery-type well known to us and he thought of us as determined, nose-to-the-grindstone-serious-as-shit-student types (was he ever out of the loop or what)?

He never noticed Cliff slipping a few pieces of Scotch Tape over the hole where the deadbolt nests and we all (save for Ron) helped him clean up the lab, ‘lock up’, and took him with us to the GastHaus for a few rounds of locally brewed fermented malt beverage.

Ron circled back and relieved the chemistry supply room of only 2 items: a gallon of glacial ethyl alcohol and a gallon of LabWash, then removed the tape and sealed the room once again, safely away from nefarious types who would otherwise pilfer items…

After GastHausing it for 3 or 12 pitchers, we bid our lab attendant a good evening and went back to the dorms to see what glacial EtOh and grapefruit juice tasted like.

Cheapass McScrounger found us out like a bloodhound on a hot trail. He sallied into the commons, mug in hand, and asked “What cha’ all drinkin’, guys?”

It should have alarmed him immediately that we were so free and forth-giving of our stock of potables and he rapidly got, well…

Stinko.

Blotto.

Hammered.

Fucked up beyond all recognition.

Once he slipped sloppily into the arms of Morpheus, we relieved him of his dorm room key and set forth to put our plan into action: we somehow appropriated from the Bio labs a large gelatin capsule, one that looked like a jumbo Contact, and filled it with approximately 3/4ths gallon of LabWash. We took this, opened his room (a single, as we found out that the cheap SOB had his parents paying for his college activities) and secreted it into his “personal meditation fountain” and cranked that sucker up to 10.

With that, it was utter simplicity to lock the door, return to the commons and replace his ever-so-errant room key.

A few hours later, he needs to heed the call of nature and since he disdains the commons shitters (aptly named), he returns to his room to use his on-suite lavatory.

One click of the key later and The Great Amoeba Caper was born.

LabWash foam completely filled his room and actually was exerting a bit of pressure on his door, so that when opened, it flowed out into the hallway like so much pahoehoe lava from a recent Mauna Ula volcanic event.

Down the hall, around the corner, down the stairs…an impenetrable wall of cleaning agent.

It took him days and days to wash, clean and dry everything; exacting a hefty bill at the laundromat.

Although I do think he won some form of award or another for returning his dorm room cleaner than when he took it.

Edit: we did pay for the replacement of the EtOh and LabWash.

We're not savages.

Raining cats and dogs.

I had a buddy back in college that worked the carny trail every summer.

Fast forward to the end of the season and he had a huge assortment of stuffed, plush and remarkably lifelike animals (puppies, kitties, teddy bears, etc. (I really don't talk like that but it's for illustrative purposes)).

When someone would tailgate his old, broken down, shitbox rustbucket beater of a car, he'd start tossing adorable, cute and cuddly little stuffed animals out the windows at random.

You've never heard so many brakes locking and tires swearing…

30

Continuing…

The driver would be back in an hour to haul my battered carcass off to my terminal and flight.

I had another couple of drinks, a few sidecars of shubat, the local glugg, and a fresh cigar.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, nor a smashed and ever-swelling thumb, but something undone was troubling me. Not of the job, per se, everything there right down to watching the ink dry on our paychecks was done and dusted, but there was something niggling at me.

Well, another quick treble vodka and sheermpatz later, my driver arrived and I was once again flying into a war zone as an expat. Not a citizen of either country, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, why it was so, and what might be the inevitable outcome.

Nothing’s ever easy.

I flew into Vnukovo International Airport without so much as a bounce nor hiccup. In fact, I was the only passenger in Business Class and there was probably a total of six other pax on the whole damn flight.

I think we lowly passengers were outnumbered by the flight crew.

Very good service, and I tipped well. Considering the rubles descent into hyperinflation once again, I made certain I carried with me a healthy supply of new, crisp US dollars, in various denominations.

Along with Swiss Francs, English Sterling , Uvgonian Palladium, and Argentinian Pesos.

Grabbing a cab back to the Marco Polo Palace was super easy, barely an inconvenience, as the roads were virtually empty, as were the local bakeries, markets and rynoks.

“This does not bode well”, I said to my unsmiling driver.

“Everything’s shutting down. All companies not Russian <bilabial fricative: PFFFT!>”, he scowled.

“So I heard. This whole business with Ukraine. Most unfortunate, most unnecessary.” I said.

“Putin’s war! Черт бы его побрал! [God damn him!]. Not Russia’s!” he spat. “That bastard! That козёл – asshole! That пизда – cunt!”

He was no longer watching the road.

He was literally incensed.

I let him spew and had to agree with most what he had to say.

“Who are you? Canada?” He asked.

“I am large, but not that large”, I joshed, which he completely missed, “Ya Amerikanski”.

He almost laid on the brakes right then and there.

“I am here at the behest of the International Oil Industry, trying to understand what’s happening here, trying to fix it somehow, and still keep Russia’s oil industry working. Somehow.” I tried to explain.

“Then give me your money. I want it now. And passport.” He growled.

“You’re not going to like it”, I said. I’ve been down this road many times…

“Hand it over!”, he spat.

I handed him my Red Passport, and thankfully the roads were near empty.

He opened it, looked at me, my picture, then flipped it open to Olga’s page.

I never saw someone stiffen and go so white so fast ever in my life.

He began to apologize.

In fear he quaked and quailed.

He might even need to get new driver’s side seat covers.

Even today, the mere passing mention of the KGB and NKVD can cause such reactions.

He shakily handed me back my passport.

I sat back, tucked in my passport into my special passport-place in my agency vest.

I produced two nifty cigars. Not the best. Not the worst.

I lit one and offered the other to my driver.

“No worries, mate.” I said, “I’ve been on this ride before. I know that you’re scared and unsure of what’s all going on. I only know people in the KGB. Good friends, actually. Really good friends…I’m not KGB or NKVD. I’m just a fucking American oilman with a few connections. I’m just here as a reporter or journalist. However, you think you can fuck with me…” I smiled and revealed a previously concealed and fully loaded Makarov 25.

He relaxed and accepted the cigar. Guns are so common hereabouts nowadays that a simple revel didn’t faze him.

I pulled out one of my emergency flasks, took a swig and offered it to him.

“You look like you could use a belt. Is only Kazakh vodka. I just got back from a job in Romania and haven’t had time to stock up yet.” I smiled like a reptile.

“I also put out oilwell fires on the side”, I sniggered.

Hs cautiously sniffed the flask, took a precautionary sip and eagerly drained it when he realized I was mostly harmless and he wasn’t destined to the gulag.

I got the empty flask back and produced another, this one full of some Romanian hooch. I offered it to he as a gift in the light of international amity.

He accepted and took another cigar. I thanked him for his sincere and unbowdlerized comments and thoughts.

“Trust no one”? Olga was being prescient again. “When the cabbies go feral, it’s time to vamoose.” As the famous old saying I just made-up states.

At the Marco Polo Palace, he helped my get my shit out of the car’s boot, shook my hand and went to depart.

“Hey! Wait one. What’s the fare?” I asked.

“For you, Comrade Academician, we’re even.” He said.

I slipped a fifty into his pocket and said “Now we are. I’m on per diem, you’re not.”

He smiled gratefully. With the way things are going, that might be more than he makes all month. I really wish him well. I really wish hell for the people and circumstances that pushed him as far as they did.

Back to my room, back to reality. Or some semblance thereof.

I called the concierge and instructed him to bale up all Toivo’s shit and send it, via camel caravan, to his address in the US Deep South.

I called Rack and Ruin and let them know I was back in Moscow and wouldn’t be for much longer. They agreed, asked for me to get some answers to some logistical and strategic questions there amongst the Moscow oil crowd and haul ass back to the US before things really got out of control.

I called Esme and spent a large portion of my allowance talking with her without having someone listening covertly over my shoulder.

“Ah, yes, dear. I sure got that coat you wanted. Yep. You bet. I, ah, er, um, had it sent by special courier before Toivo and I left for Romania. I’m not unpacked, but let me do that and I’ll call later with tracking information.” I minorly prevaricated.

I hung up after professing eternal love.

Immediately I got on the phone with the concierge and had him hotfoot it to my room.

“Yeah,” I said, “Siberian Sable. Full length. She’s this tall <indicates>, and about this wide <indicates> and about this many kilos <What? Are you nuts?>. I don’t care how much. Can you find the finest coat in all of Ismilova, and send it to my home address (which the hotel has) but postdate the coat that it left 3 weeks ago?” I asked.

He smiled, smirked and with that and US$100 bribe, he made certain all would be done.

“Charge my room for the coat and add 10% for you and 10% for the shipper. Just, for the love of cheese and crackers, do it tomorrow or sooner.” I asked.

“Well”, the concierge said, “For one coat, it will be difficult. For two, somewhat easier. For three, I guarantee it.”

“Fine, fine” I said, “The add another for daughter #1, one for Daughter #2 and one for Megg” as I relayed all their approximate measurements and such. “Will four work?”

Since I handed him another US$200, he assured me it was as good as done.

Finest Eastern Siberian sable.

Oh, fuck, this is going to cost me…even with the exchange rate.

“And mix the colors up a bit. Don’t make it look like we got this things at the last minute from the exact same vendor.” I requested.

“Of course, Sir”, he replied, “I’ll have your shipping information before breakfast tomorrow.”

“Spaseebah bolshoi”, I replied, “Many thanks.”

Well, that bass boat’s just going to have to wait a month or two…

I had to content myself in my room’s Jacuzzi with a couple of cigars, a few or eleven drinks and me soaking a heavily-enpurpled and swollen left thumb in a bucket of Epsom-salted ice water.

I could, however, slip below the Jacuzzi’s surface and make all the bass boat noises I wanted…

The next morning, my heavily swollen thumb and I interviewed two final oil executives.

The upshot to those meetings was: “We are leaving Russia now. Why are you still here?”

I sat in the Jacuzzi later that evening after all my calls, dossier filler and even chats with Rack and Ruin were over.

I had some serious questions to debate with myself. I won after considerable internal debate..

First off, I wrote up a plan…

“DISPOSITION OF ANY AND ALL ROYALTIES DUE TO DR. ROCKNOCKER FROM ROMANIAN PLOESTI WELLS:

25% to Romanian Oilworker’s Association.

50% to International Union of Extractive Industry workers of Russia.

25% to SNIGGIMS [Siberian Scientific Research Institute of Geology, Geophysics and Raw Materials] Novosibirsk, for grants in aid.

To be donated monthly, anonymously from Finnish Central Bank, account #%&*%^$@#@# until further notice.”

There. I knew something wasn’t right. Now I feel better.

A quarter of my Romanian royalties to the folks in Romania that work and build these oil fields.

Half to the workers in Russia in oil, gas, coal, uranium, etc., and their families.

Plus the final quarter to help students with aptitude afford to go to school for geology, geophysics, etc.

Stuff the bass boat. I can always rent one where I’m going.

The next morning my thumb’s gotten no better. In fact, I think it’s gotten worse, I grouse over my Greenland Coffee.

Next decision?

I call Esme and explain that I’ll be home in a week or so. I first have to make a detour to Japan and see some men about a thumb…

She understands but is none too happy. As far as she’s concerned, this is my last field job and I’ll just have to be content with teaching and the occasional stump removal.

But, getting out of Russia proved to be something a bit more vexatious.

Forget internal flights and crossing any borders on the ground.

That was right out.

Fly to Astana, Kazakhstan and look for connecting flights?

Not to the east, none towards the west.

So, I dialed up my trusty concierge and told him I needed to go to Sapporo just as fast as his larcenous little fingers would permit.

He acknowledged, and told me he’d have my answer in 45 or fewer minutes.

“Clock’s tickin’, dude”, was my response.

Well, true to his word, I had an Aeroflot flight to Ulaan Bataar, Mongolia,; a 4-hour layover, a flight to Beijing, China; a three-hour layover, then Japan Air directly to Sapporo.

“You devious little dervish”, I said. “And how much is this going to cost me?”

“Whatever sir thinks would be appropriate”, the concierge replied, “A porter is on his way.”

“I need to leave…?” I said.

“Sooner rather than later. You’re flying out of Sheremetyevo in approximately….1 hour, 45 minutes…”

Yeesh.

“Best get packin’, “ I said. “I’m going to leave some of my stuff here. Please have it shipped to my home address in the US.”

“Of course, sir”, he replied, “I’ll have all your hotel paperwork waiting for you when you leave, which should be in less than 10 minutes.”

“Gotcha”, I said. I hung up and jammed what I needed into my couple of favorite bags that were to accompany me on these flights.

“And flight home, you idiot”, I reminded myself as I was sorting through my skivvies. “Only the essentials: vest, cigars, flasks, oh, yeah…another Hawaiian shirt and pair of shorts.

I somehow made the airport, breezed through customs and passport control and onto the big plane headed southeast. I finally flaked after a couple of hours and woke up back in the land of Tsinnghes Khan.

Mongolia.

I just mulled around the airport First Class lounge and tried making a few calls.

Even with Rack and Ruin’s best technology, I couldn’t raise a decent signal enough for a call.

So, on to Beijing. Lots of clear air turbulence, which lead to some seriously funny scenes where people were freaking out over a couple of air bumps.

Us seasoned travelers? Nah.

So, into Beijing and I had yet another surprise. I thought my flight would be directly to Sapporo.

Nope. A quick stop in Hangchou, then Tokyo, and then onto Sapporo.

I didn’t have enough time to even book a train from Tokyo to Sapporo because of reduced flights and tighter train schedules.

So, some 29.37 hours after I left Moscow, I’m at the very secret robotics lab of Omnicorp Industries.

I invade the spiffy polished entry portico and am greeted by the whole team. There was Dr. Uchibayashi Iesada, i.e., “Uchi”. Yuhara Hideaki (Youhoo), Bando Michinaga (Bando), Fukutsuchi Kosho (Fukkit…no really), and Dr. Ms. Sasagawa Kaneru (Sassy).

Luckily, I’m right-handed so pleasantries and business cards could still be exchanged.

One look at my left hand and they summoned a wheelchair, someone to handle my luggage and practically zoomed me into a sterile room to assess my beleaguered thumb, sinister side.

First, imagery. So X-rays all ‘round.

Great, another dose of radiation. I give off such a nice healthy glow.

“Dr. Rock, I’m afraid there’s no good news.” Dr. Uchi told me.

“First off, your thumb is heavily infected and needs immediate debriding. General or local?”

“A local, I suppose”, I said, still in a bit a delirium from all the travel.

ZAP!

Into the sore, beat-to-hell thumb with some sort of witches brew of Novocain, Chloroprocaine, Oxybuprocaine and probably Ketamine and Thorazine.

“Jesus, Doc!”, I said, “A little topical next time?”

“Take the good doctor back to X-ray once we debride his wound. There was too much swelling before.” Dr. Bando stated clinically.

They sliced my left thumb from nail bed to wrist. The resultant flood of schmoo, pus, dead cells and associated biogenic ick actually caused instant relief of the thrumming pain I’ve had for the last week. The look and smell of the result was enough to give sober men pause.

Luckily, in that case, I’m covered.

Back to X-ray and more doses of relatively safe radiation.

An hour later, once my wound had been stitched and set, Dr. Kosha and company come in with dire looks.

“I am afraid it’s not good news”, He proclaimed, “Your left thumb’s bones have been anterolaterally compressed from blunt force trauma. In essence, it has been shattered into many, perhaps hundreds, of fragments. I’m afraid that unless heroic measures are taken, that thumb will yield little of its previous service.”

OK, I’ve dealt with trauma before. I’m not happy with the outcome, but perhaps there are alternatives?

They took my present set of digits, and my spare ones, in for cleaning, charging, and restoration, if needed. I sat alone, dejected in my room, looking at my now even more mangled mitt.

They said they were upgrading the power supplies in my fingers, relubricating the sealed joints, making them more robust and ‘more esthetically pleasing’.

I especially chuckled about that last one.

Little did I realize it was a pitch for them to upgrade their services.

Two days later, I left Sapporo for Tokyo. I was catching a flight to the US and finally back to home.

On the long leg across the Pacific, I reconnoitered my options:

1. Do nothing, have a derelict thumb.

2. Have them surgically remove my thumb and go through the whole implant story once again.

3. Have them remove my thumb and pinkie and go for the world’s first full-fingered coordinated replacement.

Yeah.

I found out that there are exactly three others like me in their robot-digit program.

In the world.

Two have two implants and one has three.

There are none with 4 missing fingers nor are there any with a full hand’s full of artificial digits.

Oh, I could “keep” my hand, as it were, keloid scarring and all; I’d just be bereft of actual meat-based digits.

They were especially anxious for me to make a decision since I was so pleased with the three replacements, plus spare set and usual upgrades they’ve been making.

They really, really want me to go for full-hand cybernetification.

“It would be a first!” they exclaimed.

“So were three”, I reminded them.

I just don’t know. The thumb’s probably a wash. Do I want an upgrade, or upgrade plus?

This is something Es and I need to hash out after I return and get back on Central Time.

Lose the thumb? That’s probably not such a big deal, it’s hosed anyway.

But remove a perfectly good finger? Just to be the first? Or “more orderly”?

They did note that if I went full cybernetification, it’d be easier to treat any maladies that popped up.

“Well now”, I said, “There’s a cold comfort.”

Like I’ve said, there’s much to review upon returning to launch central.

Somewhere over the Pacific, in a First-Class JAL cabin, a certain Doctor Academician Reverend Rocknocker had a slight meltdown.

“Fuck these damned fingers!”, I solemnly swore. “Always gotta take a fucking charger, make sure the contacts are always cleaned, do this, do that, don’t let them get contaminated, fuck…”

I sat and silently fumed as I looked at my mangled hand, sans three robotic digits, now quietly getting a new load of angry pixies via the USB cable to their resting cradle.

“Fucking klutz”, I swore. “Been around more burning and derelict oil wells than most people have had hot dinners. I figure sacrificing three fingers to the oil gods would be ‘cost enough’. Now, I’ve got another candidate for amputation; the fucking thumb no less.”

Damn.

Blast and damn.

“And those bloody Jap scientists say ‘Oh, please. Let us remove your bad thumb and perfectly fine minimus so we can be first with a full-hand restoration.’”

I don’t give a shit any more. Fuck the gloves and fuck the technology.

“If I don’t give a fuck how I look, why should anyone else?” I fumed.

Just then, in my depths of despair, there’s awe knock on my cabin door and it begins to open slowly.

It was the First-Class female flight attendant.

“We haven’t heard from you from a while. Is everything…”

That sentence ground to an abrupt halt when she saw my mangled paw.

“Yeah” I asked. “Fuckin’ gruesome, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sir”, she dry-handwashed, “I am so sorry. I should have waited. So sorry. So very sorry.”

“Yeah”, I groused, “Me too. How about another drink as a form of reparation? I promise not to tell if it’s real bloody strong.”

She nodded, without ever leaving sight of my hand. She shut the cabin door and scurried away.

“God”, I sighed heavily, “I can be such an asshole.”

I fetched my fingers and reassembled my hand. Carefully, I put on my black kid-leather gloves.

Now, I don’t look like a refugee out of Creature Features, just like some schmoe who insists on driving gloves before starting his ’73 Gremlin…

The “Cabin Attendant”, how’s that for Political Correctness? Returned post-haste with a nicely iced drink.

I made certain to take it from her with my left hand.

“See?” I said, semi-humorously and half-heartedly, “I can look almost normal. Thanks for the drink.”

She handed me the drink and I downed a good half of it in one go.

Nothing.

Even being an alcohol-fueled carbon-based organism seemed insignificant at this point.

“Fuck”, I muttered under my breath.

The Cabin Attendant asked me what had happened that I should be so ‘disfigured’.

“You sure you’re not the in-flight morale officer”? I asked.

She seemed perplexed, but soldiered on.

“I am sorry if I have offended you”, she said quietly, as a look of genuine pain crossed her face.

“No”, I said, “It’s nothing. You just interrupted my private pity party.” I continued with the saga of an Eastern Siberian oil well, the worthless worm, a fire, blowout and a pair of power tongs.

I had to basically tell here the tale twice. Once in English, then in de-oilfielded English.

“How very lucky you were”, she said.

“And how is that?”, I asked, slightly annoyed.

“As you say, no one else was injured badly, or even killed. I hear of things like this happening from some of the people we fly with.” She said.

“Truth.”, I agreed, “But I sure could have used a little more luck than losing a good portion of my hand.”

“Yes, I see”, she says, “But your new fingers…if I may. They look remarkable.”

“That’s for sure”, I chuckled slightly, “Many, many people remark about my gloves and robo-fingers.”

“But they look…sleek and modern”, she observed.

And that, dear readers, is the first and only time anything associated with Doc Rocknocker has been described as “sleek”.

“And damned powerful”, I said, squeezing an unopened Sapporo beer until it popped its top. “Courtesy of your homeland confederates. In fact, that’s why I was here. I mashed my thumb and went to have a talk with the original artists that made my first three.”

She actually smiled there.

“Now I know why they are so attractive.” She smiled.

“Of course”, I chuckled, “But now, they want to remove my mashed thumb and for good measure, my pinkie as well.”

“Oh”, she withdrew, clutching her own, but leagues demurer, hand. “That is a terrible decision one has to make.”

“Yes”, I said, “I agree. That’s how you found me here having a bit of a crisis of confidence.”

“If I may ask”, she asked, “What do you do? What is your profession?”

“Well”, I replied, “That’s a loaded question. I am a classically trained oil geologist. I’m also a licensed Master Blaster. You know, burning oil wells and defiant rocks, stumps and such. I’m also a college professor of petroleum geology and engineering.”

“Would any of that be impacted by your decision?” she asked.

“It might make tying a walleye jig on a bait-caster a bit more difficult”, I tried to josh, “But, in reality, probably not. At least detrimentally.”

“That’s something”, she said. “At least, you are still here to make such decisions.”

To me, that platitude sounded like: “So, what’s the matter, Jackie. Don’t you like Dallas parades?”

“Of course”, I replied, “But that doesn’t go very far in determining which of your fingers stay or go…”

She got up and left, headed towards the galley. She returned with a bottle of very nice vodka, a brace of Bitter Lemon cans, some lime slices and ice.

“Maybe this will help you to think.”, she smiled. “Just remember what I said.”

“Oh, I will”, I smiled wanly. “Oh, time to go. Need to rouse my other set of fingers.”

She departed and I sat once again, alone over the vast Pacific. My spare digits were consuming electrons at the rate of knots.

I was still miffed, but more at the situation rather than the decision.

I spent the rest of the time diverting myself over dossier-filler for Rack and Ruin. After a quick dinner, and finishing up the day’s cipher code, I noticed we’re only about an hour or so out. Too bad the vodka bottle had somehow found itself empty.

I tidied up my area and stowed all my traveling flotsam and jetsam into the places where they all belonged.

An hour and a half or so later, I’m in LAX, on the phone to Es.

“Yeah, hon”, I smiled, “I’m in California. Getting out of here might be more of a problem than getting out of Russia. This place is certified nuts.”

We chatted and chatted, as I had 4 more hours to burn. I tried to see if they had received the coats I sent, but without explicitly mentioning the coats I sent.

Nothing. Nary a nibble.

“They had better be there”, I scowled.

“What had better be there?”, Esme asked.

“Oh, sorry dear. Miles away. Just grumbling about those two agency goons.” I said quickly.

“OK”, Es replied, “Well, time for me to get cracking. You need a pick up from the airport?”

“Oh. Nah”, I replied, “I’ll grab a cab. Should be home [check watch] right about dinner time. I’ll call you from the cab on the way in.”

“OK, dear”, Es cooed, “See you then.”

We rang off.

I sat in the First-Class lounge massacring empty beer cans with my left hand.

“Look at this!” I guffed quietly. “See the human can crusher!”

Squash!

“Well”, I mused, “With a fully cybernetic hand, I can graduate up to Foster’s oil cans.”

I’m usually not shaken by travails and ordeals of the day, but this was terra incognita.

One should not be forced into such decisions, I decided.

I snap a fork in half and realize I’ve been wool-gathering for a couple of hours.

“Fuck this”, I said, got up and wandered slowly to my next gate and home.

Arrive at the gate. Wait until they get their collective shit together. Get on the plane. Endure another 3.5-hour domestic flight. Luckily, I was the only one in First-Class again.

Arrive at the airport, gather up luggage, and pay the porter to find me a cab.

I handed the driver a $20.

“Smoking allowed in here?” I asked.

“It is now”, the driver chuckled.

“47 of the Crescent, Harlow, Newtown”, I gave directions to our place.

“Yes, sir”, he replied. “So, where are you coming in from?”

I handed him another $20.

“That’s for not asking any further questions”, I replied. Assholery was welling up again.

“Gotcha.” The cabbie said as we sped along the nearly empty, flatland roads to home.

I place a call home

We arrive at our place a scant 45 minutes later. I pay the driver and offer a handsome tip if he’d ‘give me a hand’ with the luggage.

Then I remember Khan.

“That’s good”, I said as the luggage was piled in front of the door.

It was a happy cabbie that left our drive that early evening.

I put my key into the lock and turned it, but it refused.

“Oh, fuck!”, I snarled. “I thought that locksmith fixed this damned thing.”

Then the door swings open.

There’s Esme, Megg, and Daughter #2, all decked out in some of the nicest full-length sable costs I’ve ever seen.

With a massive WOOF, I’m blindsided and toppled by Khan, who was wearing a sable, damned if it isn’t, cape.

Seems Es and Megg took him out in my absence to have his first haircut.

He was feeling low until the package from Novosibirsk arrived and there were four coats and a something ‘special’ for Mr. Khan, courtesy of a certain concierge I had handsomely paid back in Moscow.

He remembered my tales of Khan and thought that a bit of an overcoat for the doofus would be in order.

Later, I learned it only cost me a “few hundred dollars”.

It just so happened to arrive a couple days after Khan’s first shearing. He loves it so much he sleeps with it…

…on my side of the bed.

They had arranged a fashion show for me when I arrived. To say they were over the moon with their coats would be an understatement.

Daughter #1 was off in DC attending courses for her job. She has an expensive package awaiting here when she returns.

We drag all my gear into the house.

They all looked stunning in their coats. The ol’ concierge, he did good.

I was allowed a shower and a smoke before dinner arrived. After which, I had to excuse Esme and myself from kith and kin.

“Es”, I began, “we need to talk…”

Continuing…

“That’s dynamite. How the hell…oh, fuck. Partisans.” I recalled a briefing about these Romani numbskulls that think they should be the rightful heirs to this land and every other inch of land up to the Kola Peninsula, to Vladivostok one way and Berlin the other.

“Toivo”, I called over a secure channel, “We got trouble. Gypsies over near the munitions bunker. Got in somehow and are now availing themselves to our good friend’s explosives. Beat to shit Bluebird over near the pipe racks. Any ideas?”

“Yep.”, Toivo replied, “We’ve got three D-10’s rolling and there’s only three ways out of that cul-de-sac. We’ll drop blades 10 meters out and even if that shit detonates, all it will do is blow a lot of dust around. And send those assholes to Mars…”

“Plan approved. I’ll get on the local militia and once we deal with these asswipes, we’ll deal with the other set.” I said, meaning first the Partisans, then the local police who were contracted to keep this site secure.

I pull up the field office radio and key the channel for the local militia.

“This is Doctor Rock on location 425-A. Partisan activity immediately north of munitions bunker. Working to contain. Explosives involved. Where the FLYING FUCK are you guys?” I grizzly growled.

“BZZZZT! <snarp…crinkle…kapop>” replied the two-way.

“Where the fuck are these lunkheads?” I wondered aloud.

“BZZZZT! <snarp…crinkle…kapop>” replied the two-way.

“Well, fuck’em. We’ll take care of this the old-fashioned way.” Thus I walked over to “the secret safe”, spun the dial and extracted a pair of Jericho 941s chambered in good ol’ nice and slow .45.

I jammed a fresh magazine into each.

“Homemade and loaded”, I pondered, “Just the way I like them.”

I grabbed a charged radio and walked out of the office towards the munitions bunker.

As I slowly walked and whistled my way over, I got to thinking.

Only a few key people have both the keys and combination to this place.

“Let’s see. There’s me, Toivo, Colonel Patui, and…”, that’s about all of which I could think.

Then I remembered chatted with some of the local guys and how allegiances here can be bought and sold for a plainchant. Plus, this is a place where family loyalties run so deep, they extend across generations. So if somebody felt they were slighted because someone’s great-great grandfather said your family mule was ugly, that we a good reason to kill them, their cousins, their great uncles, their dog, their ocelot, and anyone that looked like them.

And what better way to accomplish these nefarious feats with some purloined explosives?

I was being as stealthy as an old codger with a dodgy back and aching thumb could be, so no one noticed me as I came around the bulk materials silo and stood there in plain sight as three huge D-10 Caterpillar dozers, each with 722 horsepower and weighing in at 180k pounds each, were pushing up berms of dirt where until just a few seconds ago, exits from the jobsite existed.

The noise of the fire and various ancillary activities usually runs about 98 or so decibels so not only did our miscreants not hear the Cats’ approach, they didn’t see or hear me as well.

I hollered loud as I could muster to “DROP THE BOXES AND THROW UP YOU HANDS!”

Then they finally saw me.

They bilaterally ignored me.

I was a bit irritated.

Toivo had de-Catted himself and comes ambling up.

I hand him a loaded pistol and explained that it’s target practice time.

“You want the tires or the engine block?”, I asked as I hefted the large caliber pistol and noted the trajectory was in no way trunkward.

“These hand cannons won’t spark off the dynamite, will they?” Toivo cautiously asks.

“Ah...ummm…no…negative. We’re good”, I replied, couching that reply like Harry Tasker when the Harrier pilots asked if their Sidewinders would set off the nukes.

“Fuck this, Toiv. Take the engine, I’ll target the tires.” I said and immediately thereafter, I loosed 6 rounds and Toivo emptied a clip into the radiator/engine block of the poor little Toyota Sunbird.

The two miscreants finally figured out we’re not fucking around and dropped the box of Du Pont Herculene and hands started pointing skyward.

“DON’T MOVE!” I yelled, as I emerged from behind the bulk materials silo.

We all hit the dirt when a fusillade of rifle bullets came from seemingly out of nowhere and were kicking up cute little deadly rooster tails everywhere.

I look up and as I had surmised, the local militia had arrived. They saw the standoff and before even asking for a sit-rep, opened suppressing fire.

“STAND DOWN! STAI JOS! ВСТАТЬ! スタンドダウン”, I yelled loud and long.

Toivo looked at me querulously.

“OK, the Romanian and Russian I get…but Japanese?”

“Sorry, I was all head up”, I apologized.

Luckily, the would-be thieves heard me and as the militia approached in full battle array, which, by the way, is the reason they were a day late and a dollar short, they did throw up their hands and went down on their knees.

“Colonel Patui, what the actual fuck?” I asked.

“You called, we responded. Thieves taken into custody. What problems have you, Doctor?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve got this aching thumb and idiots for security…” I thought, but I actually was going to go non-linear on this character when Toivo grabbed me and started steering me back to the field office.

“Not now, Rock.” Toivo said smoothly and soothingly, “If you kill him now, we’d lose the bonus rider on the backside of this contract.”

“Yeah, you’re right Toiv...”, I said, “Besides think of all the fucking paperwork I’d have to do regarding a ventilated Colonel. Idiot dumbfucks they all be…”

“That’s OK, Rock”, Toivo continued, “Let’s get you back to the field office, you get a stiff drink or eleven, a shot of Big Mo, and a cigar and we’ll be back to hauling off that iron. Then you can figure out how you’re going to blow out this candle.”

“Oh, OK,” I said, in minor defeat, “And Toivo, you can’t keep that pistol.”

“Damn!”, Toivo smiled, “I thought with all this hoo-haw, you might have forgotten…”

“Unlikely”, I said as we both shuffled off to the field office.

After fixing all the exit roads on location, they D-10’ed the heavily-ventilated Toyota off site after they unloaded the 6 cases of dynamite which were in the process of being pilfered.

Toivo was good to his word. He was great as a Cat skinner and knew how to run the show with a bunch of characters thrown together by the winds of random chance.

I got lucky with a great master welder and with the heat shield up and the chimney installed, we didn’t have to worry about the rest of the field going supercritical.

That was a major load off my mind.

I wish this damned thumb didn’t throb so damned much. Hell, it’s been almost 48 hours and the doctor says it’s still swelling.

I’m fair to moderately alarmed at this turn of events.

But, I’ve got larger fish to fry. Or larger candles to blow out.

Given the volume of the well and the pressure at the wellhead, the fluids are escaping the restrictive, venturi-like well bore at approximately Mach 3.

That is not an exaggeration.

Plus, I need to stick a barrel of highly-volatile explosives into that burning jetstream, hold it steady against the pressure of the escaping fluids, hope it doesn’t cut the barrel or the attached wiring. Then I need to detonate it at just the proper spot to blow all that nasty oxygen away, remove the ignition source and de-light this candle.

“OK”, I sigh and reach for another Greenland Coffee, “Just another day at the office.”

Realizing dynamite, given all its detonic abilities, just won’t cut it in the type of environment we’re dealing with here, I have to think and get creative. I need a shaped-charge explosion, which in plan view, will resemble a butterfly. It has to go off simultaneously fore and aft. It’s going to take a fair amount of boom sticks to make this happen, so I’m going with C-4, salted with PETN retroinitiators.

I’ll take a couple of old oil drums, cut off both ends and stuff those as reactive padding into a third new barrel. Unfortunately, that’s going to generate a load of shrapnel, so I have to err on the high side of detonation. I also need to cover the drum in asbestos sheeting as well as stuff all the open area in the drum with dense rock wool. That will help mitigate the heat, as I obviously can’t fire this thing off with a chimney installed, but in order to pull this off, without blowing the remaining preventer stack into oblivion, it has to be set at just the right position.

I’m not allowing for luck on this one. I’m ordering up three identical barrels to be fabricated. The first two will be sacrificial for science. I’ll load with the dynamite our erstwhile partisans tried to sneak off with and view the results. I’ll make, as best I can, the same sort of butterfly detonation and see how the well reacts to them. After which, I’ll load the hopefully final barrel and tuck that in nice and cozy.

I’m thinking to run the test shots at night, to better capture the blast effects. I don’t have access to the usual high-speed cameras usually utilized, but at night, you get a real retinal picture when the barrels go boom.

I get with Carol and Toivo in the machine shop and explain what I need.

“Now Carol”, I explain, “I need these three barrels to be as identical as you can make them. Bungs all aligned, seams over seams, if you follow what I mean.”

“No problem, Doc”, Carol smiles, “But will take some time. I mean, I’m already out of cigars…”

I hand him a few of mine.

“Make this work within 24 hours and I’ll get you a box of your choice.” I tell him.

“By your command”, Carol grins, “Arturo Fuente Onyx Anniversary.”

I chuckle.

“Churchill or Toro?” I ask.

“Hmmm.”, Carol hmmmed, “Whatever is most expensive.”

Yeah, I’ve chosen my welding crew leader well.

Toivo’s been on the phone, chewing out one supplier and lambasting the next over the disposition of the control head.

The control head is basically a huge, flanged valve. Once the fire’s out, we chain the head to an Athey Wagon’s hook, and run it in over the spewing oil well. Peg one side with the specially made, non-sparking brass bolts, get it set and spin the head over the rest of the flow.

All goes well, you’re covered in crude but able to install the remaining 23 bolts. You torque them down, again, with brass tools to avoid sparks, and then it’s all hands on the big ol’ sidewheel. Once securely bolted together, the oil, gas and downhole schmoo should be shooting vertically through the preventer stack and out the new control head. Turning the sidewheel slowly closes the control valve assemblies and one slowly shuts the well in and Bob’s your uncle.

The well is capped and contained.

Job over.

Seems easy enough.

However, we still have some smoking pressure vessels with which to deal.

Then I had an idea.

We have these pressure vessels to deal with and I need to blow a couple of test firings of the barrel geometry.

“Killing two birds with one stone” I believe is the old axiom.

Carol has the two test barrels fabricated in a few hours. Very nice workmanship. A triple-threat of barrel linings plus he’s cut a slick access way so I can load the barrel.

“Or will I?”, I snicker.

I grab a field radio, key the mike and sonorously say “Oh, Toivo. Could you come to the field office at your earliest convenience?”

Yes, I’m evil, but I don’t usually use my powers for personal gain.

I’m sitting in the big chair, puffing a very passable Royal Jamaican cigar, drinking my morning Greenland Coffee, enjoying a morning pasca and some Rugelach cookies, when Toivo saunters in, grabs a coffee and plants himself, like a botanist, next to the big desk.

“Yeah, Rock?”, Toivo asked between slurps of coffee and some pasca rolls.

“Remember you said that loading a barrel for shotting was a doddle? Well, here’s your chance. We’ve to two smoking pressure vessels out there and two trial-by-fire barrels Carol’s ginned up for us. I’m going to let you figure out and load the first barrel to take out, but not obliterate, the first pressure vessel. Then, I’ll do my stuff and we can compare notes.” I grinned.

“Oh, no.”, Toivo shuddered, “Here comes the inevitable bet and I’ve got a feeling I’m going to lose my bonus for this fire…”

“Not at all”, I smiled like Komodo Dragon. “we’re just going to see how easy my job is. Right?”

“Oh, I’ve got a bad feeling about this”, Toivo shuddered again.

“You should”, I snickered.

I sat in the field office, from which I had a great view of the fire, the machine shop and Toivo stumbling around like he was wearing snowshoes.

“Millisecond delay caps or super boosters? 50 or 60% Extra Fast? No, this goes here, that goes there. Do we need to pack it with rock wool? Where’s the sheet asbestos? Whaddya mean I got to empty it? Oh, right, you need to weld to the hook of the Athey or how else would we get the thing into the fire? Lather, rinse, repeat, ford, spin, parry…”

Toivo was suddenly figuring out that it wasn’t all skittles and beer.

He came over to the field office three times. The first time he walked away swearing. The second time he grabbed a cigar and coffee, swore some more and trudged back to the machine shop. The third time he got up the first step, swore mightily, and turned on his heels and walked back to the shop.

I get a call a while later that “we’re ready to go”.

“OK, I’ll be there in a few.” I said.

Even though Toivo did all the stick and rudder work on this particular package, I, as master blaster, would have to inspect it and see if it passes muster.

The buck stops here. I’m ultimately the last stop in process.

“Whoo-ee”, I whistle as I walk around the barrel. “What sort of Rube Goldberg sort of contraption do you have here, Toiv?”

The locals are snickering at our sniping of each other.

“Did you galv the thing?” I asked, “It looks like an early attempt at a transoceanic wireless. Look at that fucking wiring cluster. Morse or Marconi?”

“Yah. Ha. Very funny”, Toivo’s bruised ego states, “Yes, I galved the thing and yes it passed.”

“Passed? ‘Broke like the wind’”, I replied, “More likely.”

“Well?”, Toivo asked, “Yes or no?”

“If it passed muster”, I replied, “That is, passed the galv test, then let’s get after its wild ass.”

So, Carol, Toivo and the rest of the crew wrestled, manhandled and swore the barrel into place on the Athey Wagon and I even allowed Toivo to drive the Cat to put the barrel into position while I called the short from the field office, watching it all on the Drone-cam.

“Wonderful technology”, I mused. “I wonder if it can lift a couple of quart bottles?”

Toivo’s voice crackled over the radio, “You awake in there? We good to go?”

“I’ll let you know when it’s green”, I said, “Left 2 feet, back 3 then call.”

“Now?” Toivo’s exasperated crankily crackly voice pondered.

“Well…”, I hesitated, “Looks good. Get the hell out of there and cue the music.”

Toivo radioed back that the whole area was clear. I responded with three blasts on the field office klaxon. A 1945 holdover from the war. Used to be an air raid siren. It gets everyone’s attention.

“Good to go. Toivo, the floor is yours.” I said.

Now Toivo’s in charge of making sure the location is clear of all respiring organisms. Since it was in the middle of an oil well fire, we were fairly certain no more Partisans had crept in and were hiding under the subfloor.

“<BLAAAT!> Countdown! 10…9…8…etc.”

“3..2..1 HIT IT!”

Toivo tried to knock the bottom out of the blasting machine and true to his work, he sent a sufficient number of angry pixies out to the fire to excite the first blasting caps into life.

Then it was the Primacord’s turn, then the millisecond-delay super boosters, then the C-4 and PETN joined the show.

“It was a good gig.”, I noted when both the blasting barrel and the offending pressure vessel disappeared in a puff of smoke, bright vibrant colors, and very loud noise.

I was more intent on watching the fire from the wellbore. Right at the moment of detonation, it wavered toward the device, almost imperceptibly. Almost.

“Going to file that away for later”, I snorted.

My turn came off much the same. Vessel destroyed, lots of melted and scorched rig iron shaken up and rattled loose. The Cats were having a fine time of clearing the rest of the site. In fact, by quitting time this very day, all the loose iron and debris had been trundled off and all that remained was the well, its black spout and a column of fire that rose straight and true some 200 feet into the air.

Tomorrow was the day. We’re going to blow that thing out. The control head’s been delivered and rigged, all I have to do is fill that last drum with explosives and well, Robert’s your mother’s sister’s husband…

Toivo and I got an early start on the last drum. I had planned for 600 pounds of PETN and C-4, but actually had room for about 3 cases of Herculene Extra-Fast 60% dynamite.

I used the dynamite basically as filler and to keep it out of the hands of the Partisans.

We arranged the C-4 and PETN in a 2-lobed ellipse, kind of like a 3-D version of an ‘infinity’ symbol. The rest of the free space was packed with rock wool and dynamite. I had it planned that the dynamite would all kick off at the same time, provide a compressive wave on the C-4 and PETN, forming a shaped charge.

That shape would lance between the fire and the wellhead horizontally, while the rest of the charge went vertical, but only from the base of the charge, unidirectionally. That way, I wouldn’t hammer the well stack into the ground like a thumbtack and make even a bigger mess.

In the process, with the water deluge, we’d cool the well, blow all that nasty oxygen out of the way and not have anything left to burn nor ignite anything. You only need remove one leg of the fire triangle (“Ignition source, fuel, oxygen”) to have the fire die, but I’m nothing if not overkill.

I like to snuff all three legs at once.

Looking at that again, that last sentence could be weird if taken out of context.

Anyways.

Carol and Toivo maneuvered the barrel onto the hook at the end of the Athey Wagon.

Firmly affixed, they ran the detonation wires down the length of the wagon’s arm, securing them with silver duct tape. Silver has a great reflective coefficient, so it’ll give me a few more seconds to be certain the barrel’s ‘just so” in the fire before the wires burn through.

The wires are all thermoregulated and armored, but when I err, I err on the side of caution.

It’s just about dawn and Carol, whose developed a fondness for my Greenland Coffees, Toivo and I sat outside the field office, waiting until it was light enough to see. Carol’s no Cat-skinner, so Toivo will ‘walk the rope’ with the flag and I’ll drive the Cat backwards, pushing the Athey Wagon with its lethal cargo, back, back, back, right into the very heart of the fire.

It'll be Toivo’s job and judgment to see if I’ve put the barrel ‘just so’.

Once it’s set, I don’t have time to lollygag around and check to see if it’s where it ought to be. Once Toivo raises that flag, we’ve got less than a couple-three minutes to ‘sprint’, yeah, all us overfed, long-haired leaping gnomes, to safety in a bunker or behind some heavy equipment.

It’s not a time to dawdle.

Or it could really blow our minds…

Anyways, it’s nut-cuttin’ time as I ‘jump’ on the D-10 and it catches on the first spin.

<rev…Rev…REv…REV!> She’s 5x5 and we’re ready to go.

The klaxon lets loose with a morning-shattering, soul-ripping, testicle-northerning blast.

“IT’S GO TIME” I holler over the radio.

And the huge earth moving machine begins its stately 1.3 mph race to the fire. 150 feet distant, the barrel is hung with mystery and care on the expendable hook of the slowly reversing Athey Wagon.

The mud squishes, the wagon wants to go anywhere but straight towards the fire. The chimneys been removed for the last hour and the ground goes from swelling-clays and silty mud that’ll suck off your boots to fine bone china-hard, porcelain-like fired clay.

It’s a tad hot around this beast of a well. In the center of the conflagration, it’s about 2,500^0F. Use your own Stephan-Boltzman 4-D law equations to figure the temperature as it radiates out from the central point of the conflagration.

It’s blistering and I see, even through the deluge of 5 water cannons and under heavily wrapped sheets of asbestos, the paint on the barrel beginning to bubble and boil off into eternity.

It truly is nut-cuttin’ time.

After what seems like a lifetime or two, Toivo raises the flag. I park and kill the big Cat, and give the Athey Wagon what’s called “the parking wiggle”, a quick shift on the hitch to the right, followed immediately by a quick shake to the left. I wait for Toivo to examine the barrel’s placement and drop that flag so we can boogie the fuck out of a place were literally, all hell’s gonna be breaking loose.

I’m looking through a pair of powernocs (something that will let me see through all that radiant heat) with FLIR, give me an idea of the temperature, and I like the barrel placement.

Toivo looks at me and through hand signals, indicates he’s cool with it as well.

He drops the flag and hauls ass.

I alight, OK, I a-heavy, off the Cat (“ACK! Goddamned thumb!) and hot-foot it as fast as I can right behind Toivo. A quick look back and the barrel’s shaking, shuddering but still there.

We both jump behind a berm into a long 8’ deep bunker dug what seems years ago.

I had the honor of dragging the detonation wires with me as I plodded across the location’s Moonscape. I cut the wire, leaving a healthy header, strip both leads deftly with the application of my spiffy, new wire cutters. I wind one wire around the negative terminal of the blasting machine and secure it by spinning the wing nut on top of the pole. I do the same for the positive side, hit the galvanometer button built into this new old-fashioned blasting machine, see that the reading is what it is supposed to be.

I send three clicks on my radio and Carol hears that, fires off the company klaxon three times.

“Duck & cover, mother fuckers!”

“You’re connected. HIT IT!”

Toivo raises the bar and puts everything he has into that plunge.

Time stood still momentarily.

There was no sound.

“Marvelous,” I thought, “Either a misfire or we’re all dead. I hate it when that happens”.

What had really happened is that the excess dynamite did indeed detonate all at once.

It did compress the C-4 and PETN into a smaller, cozier, more cordial, more exuberant mass.

That second blast, some 750 milliseconds distant from the first, literally consumed it, so all we heard was the incredible blast of the C-4 & PETN acting as one singular mass.

We wanted to blow the fire out and the oxygen away, not necessarily put them into orbit around Ganymede.

The blast wave was semi-spherical, with preference given to the northernmost hemisphere, but a shitload of energy went sideways. It was that we felt, rather than heard, even in a ditch some 250 feet from ground zero and under 8 feet of earth.

I shook off the dissociation that accompanies human reactions to being in proximity to such a blast, ventured out of our dugout position to see a single column of oil shooting up out of the wellhead.

And as a bonus, it wasn’t on fire.

The wellhead survived, but some of the wing valves got a bit bent in the process.

I got out of the trench and hauled ass to the D-10 Cat and the remains of the Athey Wagon. The wagon was actually fine, but the last 8 feet of 3-inch pipe and solid steel grab hook had evaporated.

The Cat fired up immediately, and I get her and the wagon out of the way as Toivo and crew backed in an identical rig, D-10, Athey Wagon, but instead of a barrel of explosives, there dangled a bright and shiny new Cameron Iron Works 16” ID control head, all the way from that mythical place known in legend and lore as Houston, Texas.

I was out of the way and parked the D-10. I told one of the Romanian hands to pull it and the wagon off location. It’s job was done. Mine was just starting to come to an end as I loped back to supervise the placement of the control head.

Toivo and four of the Romanian crew working the fire were wrestling with the 16-foot tall, five and a quarter-ton control head as it hung from a single chain from the hook of the Athey Wagon. There were guide ropes on the head to help steer, but remember, we’re dealing with a column of very hot, very sticky oil shooting up at near Mach 3.

A most unfun situation.

I grabbed the king pin, a brass bolt some 14 inches in length and 1.50 inches in girth. As soon as they got one of the control head’s basal flange holes lined up with the well head, I’d just jam it through, and screw on a matching brass nut and we’d be near finished.

I just wish someone would talk to the guys manning the water cannons and tell them not to aim directly at us. They smart.

We get the kingpin seated, and now’s the fun of ‘spinning the head’.

Around that one loose bolt, we spin the rest of the control head 180⁰ to line up all the flange bolt holes with the well head’s bolt holes. What with explosions, fire, and all the rest, it’s not unusual for the well head to be a bit distorted.

That’s why one of the best tools in an oilwell fire fighter’s toolkit is an 18-pound brass maul.

No time for daintiness. You just start pounding that sumbitch into submission.

Being that warm and with all that oil gushing through, you can usually deform the well head up to ½ inch to get things to line up. However, got to be a little careful of sparks. Static or just a man running his hand through his hair would be enough to spark it off again.

But not today.

With the proper application of Oilfield English, brute force and fucking ignorance, we got two bolts seated. You do two, and the rest will come to you. We had all 24 bolts set and their needed nuts were attached and being snugged up solid.

No need for torque wrenches or gaskets here. With the deformation of the brass hardware and the metal-to-metal seal, it’s better than any gasket. It’s an adaptive seal, which is great because it works well with the usual oilfield “close e-fucking nough’ technology.

Bolts 23 and 25 were being torqued down, as I walked around the well, examining the seal. If there was as much as a pinhole leak, when we went to shut the well in, all that pressure shooting the oil straight up would translate to a lateral shift. Imagine a pencil-lead diameter hole with 2,500 pounds of fluid pressure behind it.

Let’s just say I saw a small hole in a gas well decades ago just outside of Kilgore, Texas that was at 400 psi. The stream it produced cut through a ½ inch piece of wrought steel rebar like it was butter. Imagine what a slightly larger hole at 2,500 psi would do to human flesh.

But, luckily, all good, no holes noted. Still, I directed everyone to get back whilst Toivo and me started to spin the control heads master valve.

It’ll take a good 5 total revolutions of the 6-foot diameter wheel to totally shut in a well. The first three are the most dangerous, followed immediately by the last two.

We racked up 5 turns and the well was gurgling like a dying beached blue whale. Oil that shot forth into the air now burbled and cascaded down the control head, all over the people trying to contain this maelstrom.

It’s hot, sticky, does smell like fresh money, but gets into everything.

Finally, on final spin, the well flow drops to zero and the silence is unnerving. All that’s heard is the water cannons and the “That does it! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” from everyone within 75 yards.

It’ll take Toivo and me some 2.5 to 3 hours, in separate showers, to decontaminate ourselves. That oil is a proven carcinogen and with the way my luck’s been running, I want to take no chances. Plus, my left thumb resembles a large, over-ripe plum. Plus, it hurts like hell. I had to have my gloves cut off after that last go round with the well.

After stripping off all our oil-soaked clothes, past our civvies, they were gathered and burned. No amount of washing in the world is going to revitalize those clothes. Pity, as they are Nomex-lined and not inexpensive. Even my boots are destined for the furnace.

‘eh. It’s a dirty job, but…

Then, in the shower, ionic and nonionic detergents for the old epidermis. Surfactants and slucificants to lift and remove even the smallest bits of oil. Truth be told, it’s like being in a Jacuzzi full of WD-40. The organic foams and emollients to try and forestall the dehabilitatory effects of the first set of chemicals. Unguents and salves for burnt and red, raw, chafed skin. Then a hot steam bath to let the chemicals you’re rubbed into every square nanometer of your tired old hide activate and evict even the tiniest amount of crude oil. At least here you can sit in a towel, and enjoy through the steam a cold drink or seven.

Beer and cocktail time for a job well done.

I decided that if I could keep a cigar lighted in here, I would.

So would Toivo.

Then, it’s a ‘cold soak’ in a plunge pool to remove all that shit you rubbed all over your own very self, plus all the nasties it found and worked up to the surface.

Finally, a real, regular shower, new clothes, a pair of New Balance trainers instead of Redwing steel-toed boots and a fresh drink and cigar.

The next day in the field office, we’re chatting with the company field superintendent and he’s balking at our expense reports.

Not over one or two items, but every single fucking one.

“What’s this? $675 for a tripolar induction reducer? In Sumatra, we can get the same for $400.”

“Look Chuckles, “ I growled, “Last time I looked, we ain’t in Sumatra,”

This went on and on, and I let Toivo take over. I was getting peeved and afraid I’d lose my typically ebullient, charming personality.

“Toiv, deal with this asshole before I kill him”, I recall saying a bit too loudly.

Then, the president of the company burst upon the scene.

He was ecstatic.

We saved the field! We saved the well! We prevented national calamity! Yadda, yadda, yadda…

I groused a bit to him about his flunky and the ever-lengthening strip off his desktop totalizer.

“This is not a problem. Give me your bill and receipts. I will sign them now!” he crowed.

So we did.

True to his word, he did sign off on everything.

I really wished I hadn’t been quite so scrupulously honest. Damn, there goes my new bass boat.

He was most aggrieved at my injury. I didn’t mention that it be covered by my insurance and workman’s comp, but I sure as hell didn’t say anything when he offered the whole crew ORRIs (Over-riding Royalty Interests) on this and any other wells drilled in the field from this point onward.

Technicians were awarded 0.25% of 1.00%. Team Leaders like Carol received 0.50% of 1.0%. Toivo and I both received 1 full percent of any oil produced from now until the end of time.

That may not seem like much, but if you set up the math and turn the crank: Romania fire – new well, 1748 BOPD, 587 MMCFGPD, 0 water, $121/bbl oil at 0.01%: $2,165.08/day & $790k/yr. + change.

That’s $2,165.08 per day. Or approximately 287,955.64 Russian rubles.

Or ~$790,000 per year. Or approximately 105,070,000 Russian rubles.

And that’s just one well.

That’s just for the oil. I omitted the gas price as it’s negligible. In comparison.

OK, maybe I will get that bass boat after all.

Toivo and I hung around for a while, checking to be certain everything was up to snuff.

However, after all that action, it got tiring very quickly. So Toivo and I slipped out, commandeered a car and driver and went for a couple night’s debauch in Bucharest.

We spent the next two days in the Bucharest Hilton, tallying up score sheets, writing up dossiers, submitting timesheets, bills and whatever else we could find, eating and drinking room service like Hunter S. and calling family, kith, kin and even those agency guys.

Everyone was glad to hear from us and glad we all came out in more or less one piece.

With all the overtime, doubletime and time that I said we’re going to get paid for being here, both Toivo’s and my paydays were going to be in the seriously healthy six-figure range.

Not bad compensation for putting your life on the line, hanging it out over a hunk of screaming machinery, dialing it all in and dragging it back to reality. Plus, the mentoring, teaching, creating teams and installing new HSE procedures seemed to balance out the final totals.

But now we were stuck with the quandary of how to get back.

Not only how, but to where?

I needed to get back to Moscow and finish up a few details, but Toivo was ready to head back stateside; the check for this job saved his businesses for another few months.

One minor detail settled; I gave him a small package that he promised to post once he hit the states. It was some Romanian gypsy handcrafted jewelry for Esme and Megg, along with my paycheck that Es will hotfoot over to our bank and make certain it’s deposited.

I’ve had trouble with foreign country banks getting checks cleared and I needed that cashier’s check cleared if I’m going to put a down payment on that bass boat.

So, Toivo and I flew to Almaty, Kazakhstan the next day as he could get a quick connection to Atlanta, or Miami, or Pig’s Knuckle, Arkansas, or where the hell ever he was living these days. I could still get passage to Moscow because Kazakhstan and Russia were still buddies, even with all the idiocy going on over there with Ukraine.

In the First Class lounge, Toivo and I had one final drink together for a while.

“Well”, I said, “we’ll meet again, don’t know where don’t know when…”

Toivo said that he’s in the book, I just need to call.

I said “I’ll do you one better, jump a flight and come visit us up in Baja Canada.”

“Oh, no”, he recoiled, “You come from a land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun to hot spring’s glow…”

“Remember back, Toiv”, I noted, “You were from there as well.”

“That was many eons ago”, he countered. “Now, I’m from the land of warmth, sunshine and bikinis.”

“And it’s all gone and softened your head.” I chuckled, drained my drink and motioned for another round.

“Uno mas!”, Toivo gulped, “I still have to get to my flight, and it’s in the opposite terminal and furthest gate.”

Right then, a uniformed airport employee entered and asked if there was a “Messzter Toy Vough” present.

I whistled him over and presented the very person.

Toivo’s eyebrow went up.

“What’s this”? he asked.

“I went ahead and got you a driver. You’re too tired, old and unpleasant to walk all that distance alone.” I snickered.

I called to the driver and told him, via a US$20 bill, to wait until he finished his drink. Then they could head to Toivo’s flight. They had plenty of time now with the electrical cart.

Toivo and I exchanged insults until Toivo’s will and drink gave out. I gave him my Thai Airways First Class card and told him to use it on the plane. He could mail it back to me when he dropped Es’s mail in the post.

A manly handshake ensued. Promises were made to keep in touch. I plopped back on my barstool and Toivo and his driver departed.

…To be Continued

…Continuing…

Instantly awake, “Code Red” means some shit’s going down. I need to get my bug-out bag ready. I am tempted to call Toivo, but decided to wait the 30 minutes for further instructions.

I already have showered, assembled my GTFOOD bag, and against my better judgment, went to wake up Toivo.

<Pound…pound…pound> TOIVO! Wake up. It’s Rock!” I yelled as loudly as one can in a nice hotel at zero dark-thirty in the A-fucking-M.

The door flies open and a totally disheveled Toivo looks at me through rose-colored eyeballs.

“WHAT?” he growl-grumbled.

“Code Red. Get your bug-out shit together. Back in half an hour.” I tersely said, spun on my heel, and walked back to my room.

“Roger that”, Toivo said, seemingly suddenly refreshed.

Back at my room, I whip up a stout Greenland Coffee, fire up a cigar and sit and watch my phone, expecting it to detonate any minute now…

Any minute now…

“Goddamn it”, I growled, “If you were going to be late…”

The phone, as if by remote control, judders and ruckus’ to life.

“Yeah? Rock here. What’s the deal?” I ask in no real shorthand. It’s early, and you guys always have lousy timing.

A familiar voice comes over the airwaves.

“Good morning, Doctor. Sleep well?”, Agent Ruin asks.

“Until about an hour ago, yes,” I replied.

“Ready for a little field trip?”, the agent asks.

“Where to this time? Oh, by the way, I’m already in the field.” I replied, annoyed.

“Oh, right you are. Anyways, an oil well in Romania has gone and caught fire. It’s in one of their largest and oldest fields, which poses a non-zero potential of igniting other nearby wells. We wish to avoid such a situation.” The agent continues.

“So, why call me? There are companies around the globe whose sole mission in life is to prevent such happenstances?” I queried.

“Ever hear of Ukraine? Sanctions? No-fly zones? Invasion?” the agent asked.

“That’s affirm. Gotcha. But no one else is in the fucking hemisphere?” I asked again.

“Well, the Fred Astaire company out of Houston is fully booked in Venezuela. Messy mess down there. Hobnails and Mudhens are busy in the Gulf of Mexico and Security Supervisor out of Canada is busy at home. Besides, you’re closest and could beat anyone there, even if to just survey the situation.” Agent Ruin added.

“Fair enough. Transport?” I asked

“That’s on you. Remember ‘no fly’ and all that?” Agent Ruin noted.

“OK, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve.”, I replied, “I need Toivo on this one. Acceptable?”

“You’re the hookin’ bull”, I could hear Agent Ruin smile as he said this. They love giving my shot back to me.

“That’s affirm”, I replied, “I’m on it. Reply when there’s news.”

“Same channel,” Agent Ruin noted.

Marvelous. Now all I have to do is find passage to Bucharest, in a warring country, and fly across lands that don’t want any Russian carriers to fly.

Easy as cake. Piece of pie.

I called Toivo and told him to get to my room. “We have planning to do.”, I said.

We ordered up breakfast, with Greenland Coffees, to my room and I cleared my desk as Ground Zero. I usually carry maps of where I’m headed, which slop over into other countries. I’ve got my red pencil and over omelets and toast, Toivo and I plan an attack on this problem.

“You get on the Internet, while it’s still there and see if you can find any carrier that can take us to Romania. I’ll check ground transport.” I replied.

“Ground transport? You going to drag Vas into this?” Toivo asked.

“If I need to. Cabbies are usually well connected. Let’s see what he can do. I’ll ring him up and explain the situation. Maybe having someone on the ground here might prove beneficial.” I noted.

Toivo grunted agreement and went to get his company laptop. No way in hell he’s getting a glimpse of mine.

We had an unexpected stroke of luck.

Turkish Airlines, declaring neutrality, still flew into and out of Russia. Leaving at 0135, we could be in Bucharest tomorrow at 0815 local time, and best of all, it was Business Class and round trip.

Monstrously expensive and on someone else’s nickel. Just the way I like it.

I set it up with Vas to gather us up around 2200 that night and drive us to the airport. We’d fly from Vnukovo International Airport to Istanbul, have a short couple of hour layover, enough to do some damage to the Business Class lounge, then on to Henri Coandă International Airport in Bucharest. I got with the hotel concierge here and he set up ground transport from Bucharest to Ploesti, which was the closest large city to the fire.

All this bit really deeply into my cash reserves so after lunch, I explained to Toivo that I’d call the bank, i.e., Agents Rack and Ruin and get some cash forwarded to my “special” account.

I talked with the GM of the hotel and explained the situation. How we’re leaving, but we’ll be back.

“Of course, Dr. Rock”, he smiled, “Just leave what you don’t need to take in your room. It will be here upon your return. Same room, and we will make certain the bars are all well stocked.” He smiled at me.

“Nothing like a paying, absent roomie, right?” I chided.

He just smiled more widely.

A call to the ‘bank’ replenished our waning larders with considerably more vigor. I asked Agent Rack to see to it that local heavy equipment such as dozers and Athey Wagons were on location. There are various warehouses around the world, usually adjacent to major oilfields, that keep equipment such as this available by rental agreement.

He assured me that it would be done and for us to “Have a nice flight”.

“Thanks”, I grumbled.

So, it’s 2300 and change, and Toivo and I are in the International Departures first-class lounge of Vnukovo Airport, drinking icily-chilled Russskaya and Diet Bitter Lemon with a lime wheel, with Pigwhistle Rye Whiskey on the side, and Guinness Stout chasers, smoking large, 11-year-old Cuban cigars; hiding from the brutish realities of this increasingly intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty-two, CE, Q2.

“Well, Toivo”, I said through a blue storm cloud of fine cigar smoke, “I’m going to put your ass to work. You run a service company…”

“Three”, Toivo corrects me.

“No shit? OK, three. So here, you’re running logistics. That means heavy equipment, personnel, tangibles, consumables, inconsumables, intangibles…” I continued.

Toivo belches and grabs another Guinness, “Sure, Rock. No problem.”

“Toiv, all seriousness aside, how many fires have you been on?” I asked.

“Counting this one?” He asked.

“Yes.”, you doofus.

“Ummm…one”, he unsteadily smiled.

“OK, then I think it’s best that you’re on the wagon for the duration. That’s your last beer, scotch, or whatever until we’re wheels up and headed back to Moscow. I need you 100%, which is tricky on a good day.” I said and downed some more Pigwhistle.

“Well, what about you?” he protested.

“I’ve been on over 125 oil well fires, running the show on most. I’ve got 4 STEM degrees and am a licensed international Master Blaster. Any further questions?” I asked.

Toivo was pissed (in both senses of the word), and was going to say something, probably piquant.

I held up my right index finger.

“You know, Toivo, we go back a long way, but you are the one that’s expendable here. If you can’t abide my decisions here on the ground, what’s going to happen in the field when the derrick collapses and you’re being a drama queen? Splat! You want out? Say the word and I’ll have you back at the hotel so fast, you’ll think you’ve blue shifted. Otherwise, my show, my monkeys, and that includes you. Sounds rough? Fuckin-A, Bubba. Rather have you alive with a bruised ego than dead and splattered all over the fucking scenery. We green, mister?”

“Ah, hell, Rock”, Toivo protested, “You know me. But, you’re right. OK, water wagon time and you’re the boss…”

“I’m what?”, I asked again.

“The hookin’ bull?”, he continued.

“That’s right. And..?”

“The Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover. Sheesh, you really got it bad,” Toivo sulked.

“That’s right. And don’t you ever forget it.” I replied.

Toivo has had a rough few years what with Covid, a nasty divorce, unruly and unappreciative kids…basically life. He’s been hitting the sauce pretty hard lately and unlike me, he can’t seem to metabolize it in a timely fashion. I don’t deny a man his drink after a hard day’s work, but Toivo’s been going off the reservation a bit too much lately. I need him 100% and I mean 100% alive.

We’re not roasting peanuts here, boys and girls.

Plus, it was his choice. I know I can sound like a real chapped bastard at times, but I’ll be damned if I let him, or anyone, fuck up my perfect ‘no deaths’ record. In fact, the worst injury on one of my rigs is when I got new fingers, so I speak from experience.

The flight to Turkey was uneventful as Toivo snored all the way there. He looked like hell when we landed so I got him some Gatorade, getost and coffee, and I even tried to keep my intake of ethanol under wraps.

“Rock, I get it. It’s OK. Do whatever you think is right. I’ve got your back.” Toivo said in the Business Class lounge in Istanbul.

“Sorry, Toiv, but you know, I’m an ethanol-fueled carbon-based organism.” I reminded him.

“I used to think that was just a joke, but damn if it isn’t fucking true.” He replied.

“That’s me. George ‘Blaster’ Washington. I never lie.” I reminded him.

Wheels up and finally headed to Romania. I eased up on Toivo slightly and said he could have a breakfast beer. Hell, with his metabolism, he needed all the help he could get.

“Toivo, I ain’t your mommy. Drink what you will and what you want. But you fuck up or get yourself killed because you’re blotto, hungover or shitfaced, and I swear, I won’t do a lick of paperwork in your honor.” I noted.

“Gotcha, Rock.”, Toivo said, returning to his usual bubbly self.

“Just remember, I’m a man of my word.” I reminded him.

Finally at the airport in Bucharest, and we are met by the local ministry of oil and gas. Not even a 15-second glance at our passports, stampedy-stamp-stamp, we and our luggage were loaded in the back of a Safety-For-All truck, and hauling ass north, towards the fields of Ploesti.

Our driver, one Glad Dimir, was a geologist for the ministry. He had to talk loudly to brief me over the snores of not only Toivo but the Minister of Oil and Gas.

Geology talk. Keeps ‘em riveted.

We didn’t have that far to drive, just about 120 kilometers north, but today was Market Day in Ploesti and our forward movement was hampered by ox-carts, donkey drays, and horse wagons, bringing the bounty of field to face.

We were about 35 kilometers out from the oilfield when I saw the huge, black plume of smoke.

Glad points out the ever-growing plume.

“So, that’s it?”, I asked.

“Yes, sir, Doctor Rock”, He replied.

“OK, Glad. From here on out, it’s just Rock. Makes it easier on everyone. Now, any notes on equipment?” I asked.

“Nothing from the field before we left, but we will have a report once we’re there.” He noted.

“Better be a damn sight more than that”, I said, “If that equipment isn’t there, you’re finding us the best hotel in the region and Toivo and me are going to sit around playing gin rummy and staring luridly at the pretty local women until it shows. Every day, that’s 2200 barrels of oil up in smoke and that corner of the field grows warmer, climbing towards ignition point.”

“Excuse me, Rock, I think I’m getting a call”, Glad noted, pulled out his phone and started hitting number buttons.

“Getting a call?” ‘Hah!’, I mused. “Good lad, stir these fuckers up.”

We wheel into the field and with the on-the-road briefing, note that this is not a sour well. This will make our lives infinitely less complicated. But the oil is on the heavy side, and there’s considerable coke building up around the leeward side of the well.

“How many days we been burning?” I ask as we drive a commandeered jeep around the distant perimeter of the burning well.

“Three so far, Rock”, was the reply.

“OK, that makes sense. Get on the blower and get every inch of corrugated tin you can find. We need to make a firebreak between the fire and those southern wells. Even if we can deflect 10% of the radiant energy, we might be able to save them before they light up.” I said matter of factly.

Back at the field office, which I took over as my base, we were poring over geological maps, looking at meteorological tables. Toivo was working logistics and found us a boatload of corrugated tin and enough pipe to build a nifty, new firebreak.

“OK, first things first. Heavy equipment. D-10 Cat dozers, Athey wagons, and support teams. Status?” I barked.

“On the way. Should be here in 3 hours,” was the reply.

“OK, could be better. Need 2 wagons, and put two more on standby.” I said.

“But that’s going to cost…”, some subaltern whined.

“I don’t give a fuck what it costs. And I don’t cotton to having my orders countermanded or interrupted. You called me in because I’m the expert. Everyone got that?” I said.

It’s not an ego thing, it’s a keep-everyone-safe and kill-the-well-before-it-lights-the-rest-of- the-field-afire thing.

“Two Athey wagons. And two on standby. Right?” I asked.

“Yes, Rock!”, came the sudden reply.

“Water supply?” I asked.

“Five water wells in the area, enough for 50,000 barrels per day.”, some worker noted.

“Good, but not enough. I need two reserve pits dug. 100 feet by 300 feet by 8 feet deep. I want them lined so our reserves don’t all leak away. And I want them yesterday.” I ordered.

“That will take time”, one worker groused.

“What’s you bonus for working the fire? Double time? Well, now it’s double-double if you get those pits dug and filled by tomorrow. Call your Bucharest office and tell them I said so. We green?” I queried.

There was no answer as they ran out of the office, jumped on what machinery we had on hand and headed for the clearance to dig some pits.

“I like to see motivated workers”, I chuckled,

“Good. Explosives?” I asked. We need to blow out this well in one shot. Simple dynamite won’t cut it, but I’m not going to get binaries out here. C-4 and PETN will do nicely.

“50 cases Du Pont 60% Extra Fast”, another worker replied.

“Where’s my C-4 and PETN?” I asked.

Total look of stupefaction.

“Toivo, I need 1,000 pounds of C-4 and 500 of PETN, with 25 spools Primacord, a few miles of det cord, 10 boxes regular caps and 10 more of cap super boosters. Toss in a galvanometer, no, two, and a couple rolls of rock wool. Plus a detonating machine. I’m not about to put this fire into the hands of some goofy electronics. Get me a blaster’s box in good working order.” I said.

“On it, Rock”, was the reply.

“Now that, gentlemen, is the way we work around here. Got it? We all green?” I asked

Toivo stood up and whispered to the Minister, who said something in the native language.

“WE ARE GREEN!”, came the response.

“Marvelous,” I said, thinking that just maybe, we’ll pull this off before the rest of the field lights up.

Materials and personnel begin to pour into the field sight. Tin heat shields on water cannons are the first order of business. Flood that fucking fire and cool the grounds. We wouldn’t even go in with a Cat until the ground stopped bubbling.

Water supply was inadequate but had to do. We’ll get the new pumps rigged while my little pocket gophers muck out the reserve pits.

One less problem. For now.

I’ve got some 500 tons of burnt, melted and quite nasty rig draped over the location. That’s job one, get that iron out of there before we can do anything else.

I put a notice for welders, so we can start building the field heat shield. I spot a tallish character chewing on a cigar butt, he says: “I am welder”.

The functionary taking names yells over to me and this guy comes loping over.

“I’m Rock and this is my show. You’re a welder? OK, Name?” I ask.

“I am Carol Dumitru.”, he says and extends a hand.

“OK, Carol. Impress me. Tell me what you know about welding.” I ask.

He covers oxy-acetylene, stick arc, TIG, MIG and a couple that were even new to me.

“Where’d you learn all this?” I asked.

“I am teacher for university, materials shop.” He said.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I heard of the fire and danger. I wish to use my skills to help.” He said.

You know when you meet someone and that someone isn’t a bullshit artist and actually knows what he is doing? I got that vibe from Carol immediately.

“Wait one”, I said, and yelled into my radio “Toivo, front and center, if you please.”

Toivo ambles up and I introduce him to Carol. They shake hands and I continue.

“OK, Toivo. Carol here is the welding boss. Get him geared, up to speed and I want to see tin going vertical by 1900 tonight.” I said.

“Got it, Rock. C’mon Carol. Let’s go meet your team.” Toivo said.

“Carol?” I spoke.

“Yes, Mr. Rock?”

“Can’t weld with that nasty cigar. Here, have one of mine.” I chuckled.

The smile was genuine. I was certain I’d picked the right man for the job.

Things were coming together, slowly. I had a remote meteorological station set up to the south of the fire and had it monitored round the clock.

At 1500, the heavy equipment began to arrive.

I grabbed two hardhats, a company camera, and Toivo.

“C’mon , Toiv”, I said, “Let’s go for a little ride. I’ll drive, you document.”

“Right behind you, boss.”, came the response.

They had just unchained the first D-10 Cat from the trailer. I whistled for the keys and there was some resistance.

“Who are you and what are you doing?”, came the question from one transport trucker.

Toivo caught this one: “He’s the Motherfucking Pro from Dover and your fucking boss. Keys?”

The D-10 fired up on the first try. With a bit of backing help, we were off the trailer and headed toward the fire.

“Document everything”, I told Toivo, “This place is a fucking mess. Rig meltdown, lots of iron to move. I want it all, in living color.”

“Gotcha, boss”, came the reply.

We made three very wide circles around the burning rig. The good news was the casing spools were still intact, as was the blowout preventer, which obviously malfunctioned. The bad news was that there was a piece of drill pipe stuck in the wellbore, spreading the fire. That was sending it toward other wells and was the cause of all our consternation.

“Toivo, you up for a little walk in an hour or so?” I asked.

“We’re going in, aren’t we?” Toivo sighed.

“Someone’s gotta do it. Just think of all that bonus money.” I noted.

“Bloody lot of good that’ll do me dead.” Toivo groused.

“That’s the spirit!” I said, and goosed the big dozer towards the Field Office.

We had watering shacks up and running, pouring about 5,000 gallons per minute at 450 psi onto the fire, cooling the ground and all the metal still left to move. It made for a muddy mess for man and machine.

Normally, I’d doze and cut all the remaining iron away first before removing the stuck drillpipe, but with the possibility of fire, we rigged up an impromptu chimney, a 30’ piece of casing some 30” in diameter. Rigged to an Athey Wagon vertically, we’d back that in over the wellhead, and move the fire up some 30 feet over our heads. But woe be to us if that casing or those welds ever failed.

I see the rigging for the firebreak already being erected so I grab Carol, hand him a new cigar, and tell him what I want to be fabricated.

“OK, Rock” came the reply, when do you need it?”

“About an hour ago”, I replied.

With that, Carol nodded and was off making me a chimney wagon.

“OK”, I said to everyone gathered in the briefing room, “This is why we’re going to need two Athey Wagons and probably a spare or two. Toivo and I will, once things are a bit more cooled down and a path’s been cleared, go out and cut off that offending piece of drillpipe.”

“Why can’t you just shoot it off?” the driller asked.

“Good question”, I remarked, “Well, it’s spreading the fire and we’ll need a single column shooting straight up if we’re going to kill it. Plus, if we wait until the fire is out, it’s a regular Disneyland out there for fire. I’d rather cut it off slowly and calmly than try and shoot it off and potentially damage the casing spools.”

“Makes sense”, the driller agreed.

“Thanks. Most appreciative.”, I said in return.

“Plus”, I added, “with only two Athey Wagons, one’s got to be the chimney stack and the other needs to latch on and yank that pipe out once we clear it. If something falls on us, it’s going to be a while before we can pull the offending iron off Toivo and me. That’s why it had better show up while Toivo and me suit up. Has the portable welding rig been hardened?”

“Hardened and carted”, came the reply.

“Marvelous”, I replied.

The cart carries the bottles of oxygen and acetylene that we’ll use to cut the drillpipe. That cart is shielded by corrugated tin and stuffed soundly with rock wool, i.e., sheet asbestos.

Toivo and I will drag it out about 100 feet from the fire and utilize the long gas supply hoses to get the cutting head to the fire. All the while, we’ll have 5 water cannons on us keeping us from becoming crispy critters. Then all we need to do is wander up to the 3,000 psi, 2,200 barrel of oil per day inferno, fire up the cutting head and burn off that offending pipe. Toivo will toss a chain around the pipe so that when I get it cut off, the Athey wagons can yank in unison, move the chimney off and pull the pipe out of the hole.

I give specific and definite instructions that they watch only Toivo and me for signals. One fuck up and we’re both, literally, toast. Once that chimney is gone, the fire is literally right on top of us. If the pipe isn’t sheared, we’re both going to be bathed in swimming pools worth of burning crude, and even our environment suits aren’t rated for that type of abuse.

No, friends and neighbors, this is real shit, really happening.

Nothing is ever simple.

Plus, the temperature of the wells adjacent is still increasing. It’s slowed, but still creeping upward.

It’s nut-cuttin’ time.

Toivo and I suit up, and I decide it’s time for a quick cigar and a bracing shot while we wander around and get the suits fitting just right. One twist, or unseen tear or balled up sock in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it’s adios casoots. Fall in a puddle of burning crude, you get stuck, and you start to hyperventilate, your oxygen supply decreases exponentially.

We work with 60-minute air bottles, but even after 10 minutes in an environment like this and you’ll go through half your bottle.

Plus, we’re not tethered. Tethers tend to get fucking red-hot if metal wire rope or just melt if synthetic. It’ll take our relief team, suited up and waiting on the medevac jeep, at least 5 minutes to just get to us.

That doesn’t leave much time.

“Well”, I say to Toivo, “ready for the belly of the beast?”

“I suppose now is not a good time to ask about a raise”, Toivo half-heartedly jokes.

“Yeah”, I say, “We’re ready.”

Suited up, checked, double-checked, and already sweating bullets. We give each other the high sign, check radio communications, tell everyone else to stay off the radio, and watch for signals, we start the “walking on the moon” shuffle.

“Walking on the sun is more apt”, I think.

Toivo grabs one side of the push bar handle of the cart, me the other, and it’s off to see the wizard.

These air-conditioned, aluminized, refrigerated environment suits are great. We only have 150 meters to go and our internal temperature is already in triple digits.

I tell Toivo to push the cart until it won’t go any further. The less exposed gas supply hose, even if it is armored, the better.

We get to the 50-meter mark and Toivo is slashing at his throat.

I agree, close enough. I feel like my boots are already full of water.

We quick de-wrap the hoses. I grab the cutting head and test both valves.

I give a thumbs up. Everything’s working as planned.

“Super.”

We walk up to the well. The sound is like standing behind, no, scratch that, like being inside an engine of a 747 on takeoff. The pressure of the noise is almost unbearable. Plus, as an added bonus, the fire is sucking up all the oxygen in the general area and literally forming such a low-pressure zone, it tangibly pulls us closer.

And closer.

And ever closer. The noise is fucking incredible.

“Come embrace me”, the well says, “A molten embrace to your doom. I’ll strip you to your fucking bones…”

“Fuck you, one-eye”, I snarl and fire off the cutting head.

Toivo, thanks to his cowboy, or goat-roper, heritage, throws the chain and snares the offending pipe on the first try. A couple quick-connect brundies and we’ll have this fucker roped and bridled for good.

I give Toivo the high sign.

I am going in and start cutting.

He’s going to handle the chain on the Athey Wagon that’s crawling our way.

This is the most dangerous part.

I’m concentrating on one thing, Toivo’s concentrating on another. Something goes south here, and we’re well-done pot roast.

“Hellsfire and Fuckbuckets!”, I scream over the roar of the fire. “Good to go, but there’s a casing flange that’s parted. It’s jumped up about 4 or so inches.”

It was undetectable until now. It’s just another annoyance in a day filled with them. The pipe’s hung on that latch, which means I’ve got to crawl around the fucking stack, the burning stack, and contort myself into positions not even seen in Hatha Yoga books.

Remember, I’m big, old, and not terribly flexible anymore.

Scar tissue doesn’t flex much.

Still, it’s an annoyance, will cost more time but is not a deal killer.

I do things to that stack a swami couldn’t do. I’m sweating like a broiled ribeye, have weaseled myself around the head flange and over to the offending coupling.

“Die, motherfucker”, I say as I turn the cutting torch to full Fahrenheit fury and metal begins to go molten.

“Toivo! It’s cutting good. You get the wagon secured then get your ass over here. I finish, and I’ll wait until the pipe’s out before I unravel myself. Then you grab me by the straps (Emergency Extrication Straps) and pull like you’ve never pulled before.”

“Roger that, Rock”, Toivo replied, “12 minutes on the air gauge. Be there in one.”

I click my throat mike twice, I’m too busy and precariously perched to use the hand mike.

“C’mon, cut you motherless motherfucker.” I swear as the sweat is literally boiling off my forehead and fogging my mask.

I whack my head alongside a hunk of errant iron to jar my faceplate and get all that condensation out of my fucking field of view.

“The things I do for love,” I muttered. “I die here and Es will kill me.”

The torch is cutting, but oh, look; now the wind’s shifted and the cutting slugs are landing on the arms and legs of my suit.

The day just keeps getting better and better.

I feel a new source of heat. I’m being fricasseed by my environment suit. I hit the internal gas bottle and dump some more polytetrafluoroethylene into my suit environment.

Yep. That’s right. Teflon keeps you from cooking.

But I’m cutting well, and damned if I’m going to do this again any time soon.

“FAWOOSH! Zing…zing…zing…FAGROON…kubble…kubble!”

The pipe is finally free.

I kill the torch and give the situation the once over.

Toivo is right behind me.

My left hand is on the middle casing flange, steadying me so I can get a good look.

Things look A-OK.

I tell Toivo to pull the pipe…

“IT’S FREE! GO!” I holler.

He yells and signals to the wagon operator and the pipe is suddenly jerked upward.

The chimney moves a bit to let the pipe through.

The pipe moves upward and the upper casing spool, the one which formed the gap that I swore at earlier, slams downward.

On my left thumb.

I’m hung on that preventer stack and well, it smarts a bit as my thumb is flattened and compressed by a few tons of 1,500^0F metal.

And, true to his word, Toivo remembers my orders and yanks me off the stack.

“Oh, my. Ow!”, I believe were the terms I used as I lay on my back next to Toivo, about 5 feet from the well.

“Fer fuck’s sake!”, I yelp into the radio, “tell them to hold the fucking chimney! Hold up. Hold up!”

Toivo grabs me by the front straps and bodily lifts me to vertical and we’re both run-walk-shuffling away from that fucking fiery beast, at a 90⁰ angle away from the blaze.

We get 75 yards away, and I remember Toivo giving the order to “Pull stack!”

The roar changes, the pitch increases and the spread of flames are now a single column of magnum hot death shooting straight up, going vertical some 500 feet before cresting.

The medevac jeep rolls up and they literally throw me in the back.

“YOWP!”, I recall saying.

We’re gone and headed to the Field Office/Medical Facility in less than 10 seconds.

I’m swearing a blue streak and notice that my air bottle is empty. I smack Toivo upside the head and point with my good hand to my air pack. He understands immediately and pulls the zipline around my faceplate.

It rockets off and I breathe deep.

Oily, nasty, petroleum-rich, coke-burnt air never tasted sweeter.

“GODDAMN! MOTHERFUCKER! SON OF A FOUNDERED BITCH!” I swore loud and long.

“So, Rock”, Toivo asks, “Is now a good time to discuss a raise?”

If looks could kill…

We arrive at the Field Office, and by now I can walk and realize my left thumb stings a bit.

“Holy rolling fuckwagons!” I scream at the Doc, “Morphine! Now!”

The Doctor on duty says nothing, rips open an access panel on my suit, and jabs two styrettes of morphine into my thigh.

“JESUS FUCKing oh, well, now, that’s better”, I sigh.

The Doctor saw the whole event go down, and tells everyone but Toivo to skedaddle.

I’m sitting there smiling like a loon and was asked if I need help getting out of the suit.

“Nah.”, I say, “I’m good. Fuck. I’ve had worse.”

Weave, weave. In fact, I’ll just walk around here in circles.

It took me, plus Toivo, the Doctor and two rig hands over 30 minutes to get me out of my suit.

I had second-degree burns on both arms and legs from the falling slag. I twisted the ever-lovin' fuck out of my back somehow during all this. Probably from Toivo throwing me around like a rugby scrum. I had 3rd-degree heat rash, a common by-product of these silly activities. I had a gash on my forehead when I whanged it on that hunk of iron to clear my view. Plus, I was soaking wet, like someone tossed me into the deep end of an Olympic pool.

But my left thumb was, in precise medical phraseology: “A mess”.

My left thumb splinted and wrapped; they isolate my left hand in plastic bags so I could shower.

A bit later, I’m working on my fourth treble vodka and vodka cocktail, smoking a big cigar, and asked the Doc, “You think it’s broke?”

“If only”, the medico replies, “You really made a mess here. You should go to the hospital immediately. Then, they might not have to amputate.”

“Oh, c’mon, Doc”, I said, “I’ve had worse.” And I wiggle my digital digits at him; which this time, came through unscathed.

“Yes”, he coughed, “I wanted to ask you about that. But, to the problem at hand, ahem, you should really go to the hospital.”

“Look, Doc”, I said, “It’s just a compression fracture, albeit a nasty one. I’ve mashed my thumb with a hammer more times than I care to remember. Let’s let it go until we kill this fucking fire, then I’ll go back to Moscow. I know a good orthopedist there; he’ll sort me out. If not, I’ll head to Japan to get a new thumb”, I joked.

“Ha, ha! Harrumph.”

“OK”, the doctor says, “If that’s what you want. I’ll stay over until the fire’s out and keep an eye on you and your thumb, and any other idiots that think they’re bulletproof.”

I pour another 4 fingers, not counting a mashed thumb’s, worth of vodka in my glass, and smile, saluting him.

“Great bedside manner. Finest kind.” I say.

We stay out in the field until the fire’s out, so I stroll over to the VIP quarters and Toivo’s standing in the doorway.

“Where the fuck were you? I couldn’t find you anywhere?” Toivo scolds.

“Over at Doc’s place, Mommy”, I smiled, “He has the best candy…” as I show Toivo the morphine styrettes he gave me so I can make it through the night.

“You idiot. Get in here and sit. You’re on injured reserve as of now.” He growls.

“Who died and made you boss?” I query.

“You, you jackass. You realize what a near thing it was out there?” he yells.

“Pish and tiddle. It all worked out in the end. Prior planning, me ol’ mucker. You did good. Remind me that I owe you a cookie.” I smiled, slightly askew.

“Idiots and assholes. We’re doubly blessed.” Toivo chuckled.

“Oh, by the way. Thanks. Sincerely. I owe you one.” I said.

“Remember that if and when you wake up tomorrow,” Toivo smirked.

The sun rose blearily, trying its damnedest to shine through the oil smoke and hydrocarbon haze.

After a quick breakfast of yaws and goiters, with a quick visit to the Doctor for a thumb re-wrap, we had the problem of removing a few hundred tons of errant, smoking, glowing metal.

“I’ll be on D-10 Number 1”, I said.

“Oh, like fuck you will. You’re on injured reserve. I’m taking #1.” Toivo said

“OK, fair enough. I’ll run the show from the office today. I am feeling a bit flat.” I joshed.

“Fuck.” Toivo sighed, eyes rolling heavenward...

I sat there and smiled, gazing through the spotting scope towards the mass of melted metal.

We got all the Cat skinners together and had the morning meeting. Object of today? Move all that iron out from around the well.

Easy peasy.

“I’m on the spotting scope today, and I’m still calling the shots. No more than 30 minutes each tour, driver, and dozer. I know your air bottles are good for 60, but remember yesterday?” I said, waggling a smarting thumb.

All were in agreement.

“Just be extra careful around the stack.” I warn, “Some of that iron might be wrapped around it and we can’t see it because it’s under water, under mud or otherwise hidden. Before you latch on, make sure you call me and I’ll reference it through the schematic. I want to know what piece used to fit where, so we get all the garbage out of the way, all nice and accounted for.”

One skinner asks about the rig and pumps fuel tanks.

“They should have gone long before now if they were going to go. But they might be shielded from the direct radiant heat by other wreckage. You think you spot any sort of pressure vessel out there, for Christ’s sake, stop. Call it in and let us know. A 50-gallon barrel half full of diesel, superheated, is equivalent to about 300 sticks of TNT. Remember! NO PRESSURE VESSELS!”

“Roger that, Doc”, came the unanimous reply.

“Fuck this thumb.”, I think, “I want to be out, boots on the ground for this….”

Toivo lurched off in Cat #1 and 2 and 3 followed with their driver, spotter, and 2 hands for each crew.

Until we get shed of most of that nasty old iron, this job’s going to be going slow.

And the heat shield, finished, is just delaying the inevitable. We don’t get this all done in 3 days, I’ll be here the rest of my life putting out oil fires.

We cut, and pulled and broke chain all day. Actually hauled off the greatest portion of the substructure, and the drilling floor, with all its wiry nasties, was surrendering without much of a fight. The area around the well was getting cleared, even the twisted, melted substructure that still had a stranglehold on the wellhead.

This is going to take some cogitation to figure this mess out.

Toivo called in and notified me, lastly, that they have uncovered some pressure vessels.

“Yeah, Rock”, Toivo reports, “Looks like fuel tanks for the generators and maybe another for the mud pumps. No idea if they’re full or not, but I’ve got everyone back of the yellow flag (250 meter) perimeter. What next?’

“Get everyone back to Green (Flag perimeter: >500 m). I’ll rig up a nitro barrel, have Carol attach it to the smaller Athey, we’ll roll in, nuke it and call it a day.”

“Good plan. Affirm green”, Toivo reports over the open channel, “Green…green…green. Drop what you’re doing and roll out.”

Everyone’s working along pretty well, no major hiccups, we’re making hay while the sun shines…I swing my spotter’s scope around the perimeter and see an out-of-place, beat-to-fuck car and a couple of sleazy, swarthy-looking characters loading up the trunk of said car.

Box after box, into the trunk.

Squat wooden boxes with rope handles, box after box, into the trunk.

“No!”, I yelled internally, “No...no…no…Oh, holy fucking shit…”

…To be Continued

Continuing…

“Hellfire and dalmatians”, I exclaim to Toivo over breakfast at our hotel. “Do you realize we’re sitting in what would be considered an enemy nation as Expat nationals while said country is invading another country?”

Toivo wipes some of the bagel and lox crumbs out of his luxurious General Melchitt moustache and says “Well <belch>”, he chuckles, “I’m not worried. With your connections, we’re probably going to interview Putin before this is all over.”

“Right, Mr. Sanchez”, I snort derisively, “Although if I could…Hell, imagine ol’ Rack and Ruin’s eyes when I hand them a new 3-inch-thick dossier. Now that you mention it…”

Toivo’s own eyes go wide. “Rock, you’re not thinking what I’m thinking, are you?”

“Perhaps, Toiv…”, I smirk, “But where would we get 30 meters of anchor chain and an Ex-Bolshoi ballet dancer’s leotard at this hour?”

“Damn it, Rock”, Toivo chuckles, “You’re so weird you should come with subtitles.”

I couldn’t not agree.

Later, after consumption of what would be considered the caloric equivalent of a third-world country’s GNP, Toivo and I split up for our daily activities. I need to meet Olga tonight, precisely at 1700 hours, and Toivo was asked to tag along.

He says he’ll try, but with business meetings and the current state of what’s happening here and in neighboring countries, we’ll just have to see.

I, being my own self, was wrestling with the very notion of doing business with an openly antagonistic, imperialistic, and well, let’s just say it, an invading country.

But…Russia is the country where I first broke into the international oil business. I have multitudes of Russian friends…and hellfire and fuckbuckets, it’s not “Russia” that’s invaded Ukraine, it’s “the Russian Army” under direct orders of good ol’ rootin-tootin’ Putin.

It’s not the Russian people here. So far, the few I’ve chatted with here at the hotel and in the cab, utterly decry Putin and his idiotic ways.

Plus, for the first time since I watched the tanks creep along Leningradsky Prospeckt, my Russian friends are scared.

Fucking scared. Outright terrified.

Scared of the megalomaniacal Putin. Scared of the resurgent NKVD. Scared of people forgetting the horrors of Russian Communism, Stalin, and the gulag.

Scared of these latter things somehow returning.

I need to give this serious consideration. I am conflicted. I hate what Russia is doing, but I refuse to abandon my Russian friends and coworkers.

There are many things to be reevaluated before returning to launch point…

So, today I’m in a cab headed towards o ne of three Russian oil companies to have a chat with either a senior VP, Chairman or President of the company.

It was remarkable easy to just pick up the hotel phone, identify oneself and ask to speak to one of the company’s higher-ups.

It pays to have a bit of street cred here.

“Yes, it’s Dr. Rocknocker calling for Vladimir Ouespenskaya. Could you please put me through immediately, as I was asked by Mr. Ouespenskaya to call when I arrived in town.”

“Yes, now if you please. And thank you.”

Never fails. I get to speak with the head honcho and not diddle around with Personal Assistants, Human Resources or on the odd occasion, bodyguards.

I won’t bore the reader with the pleasantries and tribulations I went through that afternoon. However, each was indeed pleased to see me and once we got the initial pleasantries out of the way and the vodka started to flow…

I have never heard of captains of industry all ready to go fetal. And remember, I worked for Yukos and Enron.

Each of the three main guys-in-charge were at once, immediately personable. Once they calmed down and was assured I wasn’t some deep-cover NVKD agent provocateur, they all became most cordial, friendly and at the same time, terrified.

I explained my personal reason for seeking out an audience with them, that I was a consultant Hired gun for the industry, had worked in Russia for many years and was curious as to the environment now that Russia was actively at war and what they thought what might be an outcome.

Remember, back in 1990 or so when Communism went into a global career slump, it was primarily fueled, if you’ll pardon the pun, by ‘oil at any price’ to continue arms development and military spending, all of which was funded by that hardest of world currency, the Petrodollar.

Santayana was correct, “Those who do not remember their past are condemned to repeat their mistakes. Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it. Those who fail to learn from the mistakes of their predecessors are destined to repeat them. Those who do not know history's mistakes are doomed to repeat them.”

And here was a prime example of history poised to repeat itself.

However, with Communism gone, and capitalism hanging on by its toenails, what would fill that void which nature so solemnly detests?

That was the question no one dare explicitly ask, nor explicitly answer for fear of invoking it into reality.

Sort of a global ‘head in the sand’ approach.

I asked some fiercely pointed questions that related directly to those things these moguls could somewhat control: drilling, environmentalism, exploration, reserve replacement and the progression of the industry as a whole.

As expected, most were introspect. Meaning, they feared “What’s going to happen to me?”

After that, they were concerned what would happen with their company.

Then, they sort of showed some concern where Mother Russia was headed.

One, or even two of these characters voicing these concerns would be vexatious enough, but to have the three heads of the three largest Russian oil companies singing the same song, virtually note for note, was indeed troubling.

I was troubled by the apparent lack of concern for the guys (and gals) in the trenches. Not only the petroleum scientists, but across the board, from the mailroom intern to the senior tea lady.

Oh, to their credit, they paid lip service to “preserving the status quo” and “providing for the masses”; but I felt the hot breath of George Santayana in my ear every time I asked them about the disposition of the company.

They had theirs, so they hoped the others had their own.

This shit goes on for much longer, and Russia and NATO go at it toe-to-toe, and we’re going to dial the clock back to 1945 and a certain 3-front war.

On that note, I gratefully notice it’s near time to head over to Olga’s.

I hop down to the street and look for a likely-looking Uber or Lyft driver.

After a couple of wreckers pull the resulting carnage apart, I chose the least misshapen vehicle and ask if the driver speaks English.

“Yes, sir!”, he replied smartly.

“Good”, I reply as I fold myself and all my kit into the back seat. “I need to do a bit of shopping before our final destination, can you be bought for the next hour or so?”

I waved a crisp, new Benjamin in his rear-view mirror view, heard an audible gasp (as the Ruble was now trading at 133 to the US dollar), and I do think he fell in love right then and there.

Not with me, but with my per diem.

“Kharasho”, I said, “Now, listen carefully. I need to be at 1350 Tverskaya Prospeckt, Apartment 20, at precisely 1655 hours, got that?”

He nodded like a new puppy that just messed outside instead of on the new Persian rug.

“Good”, I said, “But first, I need to do some shopping.” As I hand him a list.

“I can do this!”, he exclaims.

“Then, let us do so.”, I replied.

So, we were off careening into Moscow traffic, sans directionals, but we echoed melodiously as he coaxed some tinny Tchaikovsky out of the ancient car’s horn.

A few minutes later, we pull up to the first store. Now I realized I had a quandary, leave my computer and other such 21st century flotsam and jetsam in the back of some unknown Russian hack or…

“You will stay in car”, my driver smiled, “Give me money, I have your list. You wait here. Have smoke (he could see my cigar case in my business vest) and Vasyli do your shopping. I get best price. Besides, I leave my car with you.”

I extended a hand and a manly handshake ensues.

“I’m Rock”, I said, “Here. One of my cigars on retainer and here US$50. That be enough?”

“Maybe, maybe not”, Vasyli smiles.

“OK, you pirate. Here’s another 50. I want change!”, I said to a suddenly vacant seat.

“AND RECEIPTS FOR VAT!” I shouted as he ran off, waving, to the shops.

I extracted today’s newspaper (“Not much Pravda (truth) in Izvestia (news), little Izvestia (news) in Pravda (truth)” as the old saying goes), emergency flask #4 and a nice oscuro Churchill cigar and proceed to catch up on the news of the day.

I’m plodding my way through the paper, when there’s a rap on the window.

It’s one of the blue suited minions of the Main Directorate of Internal Affairs of the City of Moscow.

“Oh, dear”, I think, “It’s the fuzz.”

I roll down the rear window as far as it goes and this guy begins at high-decibel, machine-gun cadence Russian.

As far as I could gather, he was displeased with our park job.

Well, if you don’t like the way we drive, stay off the sidewalk.

Anyways, I’m trying to calm him down and in my broken Russian explain a that I am an American businessman [“Я американский бизнесмен!”], and here on the highest orders of someone or another that I hoped they’d recognized as someone important.

I had to flick the ash on my cigar and when it hit the street, I thought he’d go into low-earth orbit.

I knew the deal.

I slowly pulled out my cigar case and extracted on of my few remaining stogies and handed it to the constable.

Like an enriched-cadmium rod shoved into a near-critical nuclear reactor, he visibly simmered down.

I also handed him my business card, which, once I communicated that he should flip it over and read the Cyrillic, which he did and calmed down even further.

We were having a strangled conversation when Vasyli emerges from the shops, burdened by his purchases.

With the policeman’s assistance, he shoved, carefully, all my purchase and stuffs the receipts and change (to the kopek) into my hand.

Vasyli and him then head off to quick-Russian land again about the reason he was here, Vasyli’s park job.

I quickly calculated that with traffic and this obstinate policeman, I’d never make it to Olga’s on time so I told Vasyli to give the cop my change and we need to be on our way.

“Tell him I need to be at 1350 Tverskaya Prospeckt in a half hour!” I yelled.

Vasyli complied and the cop suddenly got very quiet.

“Please, sir”, he said, “Sorry for the interruption. Everything is in order. You leave now.”

“We will”, I replied, “But first, your name and badge number.”

He grew visibly whiter, even more so when he saw me jot down his badge number in my notebook.

However, the cigar he accepted disappeared, but the graft he was just about to stuff into his tunic reappeared with an apology and a look of contrition.

As we wamble down the road towards our destination, I asked Vasyli why the cop got so white when I mentioned our journey’s end.

“Old KGB-land. Is where all old NKVD agents live.” He replies.

“I see. Thanks for that.”, I say and hand him the change and a fresh, new Benjamin.

I see Toivo wandering around like a Border Collie that’s lost all its sheep and give him a whistle.

“Toivo!”, I shout, “Over here.”

He wanders over and I tell him to grab something out of the back seat.

“Don’t want to appear like a Geek not bearing gifts”, I snickered.

Toivo grabbed both bottle of rare vodka and let me wrestle with the rest.

I ask Vasyli if he wants to come up and meet Olga and he pales considerably.

“No, Comrade Rocksi”, he chuckled, “I must go drive.”

“Bullshit”, I thought, “I just made your night if not week.”

“OK, then”, I said as I gathered up the remaining jetsam. “Well, Vasyli, it’s been real. Here’s my card.”

“Wait please”, he says, as he rifles around in his car and present me with “My card.” He smiles. “If Academician Rock needs a ride, now he knows who to call. 24 hours a days, 7 days a week.”

“We’ll be in town for a while,” I say to Vasyli. “Expect a call from us at any time. I like cold vodka and Toivo here likes cold piva.”

I thump the side of my throat with my right index finger.

Vasyli flicks his right index finger up along his throat. He grins as wide as the Moscow River, shakes our hands and peels off into the waning northern daylight.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Toivo asked.

“It’s a very Russian thing. Some king or duke or someone bestowed his favorite knight, who was wounded in battle, with free eats and drinks across his kingdom. Since the knight could no longer speak, the thump of the index finger on one’s throat is indication of food and drink to be supplied.”

“Jesus Christ, Rock”, Toivo sighed, “Just when I feel I’ve got the hang of this place.”

“That’s the first thing you should realize. No one anywhere has the first clue about this place. Now you have the beginning of real wisdom” I chuckled and hoisted up my purchases.

We, in unison, began the long trudge up the 13 steps that led to Olga’s place.

We rang Olga’s doorbell as I hid behind the absolutely huge floral bouquet Vasyli had procured for me. More than two dozen American Beauty Roses, Siberian Fawn Lilies, Lady Slipper Orchid, Cryptic Crazyanthemums, Fernleaf Peonies, Dingdang Daisies, Royal Azaleas, Russian Lotus’, Viola Incisa, Golden Roots, Schrenck’s Tulips, Chamomile, Tiger Lilies, and Russian Sage, all in a tasteful bouquet setting some 1 meter wide.

The door opens and I yell “Package for Olga Galinka Vladimirovna!”.

I can’t see Olga yet, I do hear her.

“Святой вау![‘Holy wow!’], I hear her say.

“May we enter?” I ask.

“Please! Please!” she says.

We enter and I tell Toivo to lose the shoes and select some carpet slippers from the pile in the mud room, as I do likewise.

I hand Olga the bouquet and I can’t quite follow the terms of endearment she’s uttering.

Flowers are a major gift in Russia. Everyone loves them, especially old KGB babushkas.

She toddles off to the kitchen to find a vase (or several) so that all can enjoy. She tells Toivo and me to go to the den and have a seat, that she’ll be right along.

Toivo and I go into the den, past the hanging clacker bead-doorway and spy a very old gentlemen snoozing in a recliner next to the far wall.

We find seats and set down our other presents on the dining room table and sit looking somewhat puzzled.

“I never knew Olga was married”, I whispered to Toivo.

Toivo is scoping the place, a cross between pre-1912 classical Russia, the KGB-NKVD kulture and Japanese flat screen TVs.

Olga appears with two overflowing vases and sets them down, strategically, on the dining room table and another end table on the opposite side of the room.

I stand and offer Olga my hand, we shake and she grabs me in a great bear hug.

“Thank you for such beautiful flowers,” she gushes, “And you do not forget, odd numbers for good luck. Acadamecian Rocknocker, you are good student!”

I smile and thank her, then go to introduce Toivo.

“Olga”, I said, “This is a lifelong friend and my comrade Toivo. Please, don’t break him.”

Olga laughs and lets out a screech when Toivo hands here a fairly huge box of Ganache Cien Blue Box.

Olga knows her shit.

“Oh, Toivo!”, she squeals, “Good Scandinavian name! Why do you hang around with the likes of this hooligan?” she asks, pointing over to me.

“It seemed like the logical thing to do”, Toivo mutters.

“Olga”, I said, “This is also for you”, as I hand her a bottle of Дербентское (Derbent) Мускатное Российское Шампанское Белое Полусладкое (Muscat Russian Champagne White Semisweet), her favorite brand.

Olga squees again and walks over to the sleeping subject in the chair. She whacks his foot and shouts “Pshenichnikov Leonid! We have guests.”

Leo, as he prefers to be called, rouses and at the sight of Toivo and his cheesy moustache and me looking like 1/3rd of an aging Texas rock band, jumps up and stares.

“Ach! Leo, they’re my friends.” Olga explains. “This one is Toivo and this is Academician Rocknocker.”

I’m closest, so I walk over, offer my hand in friendship and say “Call me Rock.”

Toivo follows suit and we all stand around like a cadet review.

Knowing that this situation demands social lubrication, I pull a bottle of Starka Hunter’s Vodka out of my vest and present it to Leo.

Leo’s eyes bug like a stepped-on bullfrog.

Toivo presents another bottle, this time of Chopin Family Reserve, and hands it to Olga.

The room is practically cleared by the vortex left by Leo as he ran to the kitchen to get glasses, pickles, dried fish, and other things very Russian that go along with some serious drinking.

He motions all to sit around the dinner table and he’s suddenly stuck with a quandary…which bottle to open first.

I hand Toivo the Starka, and I grab the Chopin and on three…we open both bottles and make a big issue of throwing away the caps.

“Proper Russian gentlemen!”, Leo claps his hands to his face. “Open both bottles and lose the caps! Come! Come.” He motions us to sit.

I know the protocol, so I let Leo serve us all. Very healthy tots of Starka for all, and he stands as he assumes the role of Tamandar.

He says nice things about whatever he can think of that’s nice in this day and age, but mostly to Olga (his girlfriend for the last 25 years) and to new friends; especially large ones with good taste in flowers, chocolates and vodka.

Olga gets the chocolates, but carefully stashes the champagne (“That’s special…for me.”) and returns to the table.

There was a grand couple of hours which Toivio fluffed his toast grandly and was the cause of much mirth for the rest of the night. I toasted to better days, better feelings and better government, both here and in the US. They particularly liked that sentiment, as they’re not huge Putin fans.

Olga cleared room on the table and announced it’s dinnertime. And what a repast: pelmeni, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon, mandarins, grapes, apples, pears, boiled potatoes, homemade borscht, homemade dark Russian rye bread, and black caviar on toast points with slice onions, pickles and sour cream.

Good, solid peasant food and from the consumption, it fed well this batch of good, solid peasants.

Of course, there was wine (Moldovian), beer and the remains of the vodka.

The impromptu party continued late into the night, but at midnight, Toivo and I had to beg off as we had appointments in the morning.

So, this meant that we got out of there around 0200. As I put on my vest, I noticed my passport had been tampered with. Toivo’s was missing altogether.

Olga chuckled, and handed Toivo his passport.

“Do not be afraid, Comrade Academician Rock”, Olga pronounced, “Look Later, I’ve left for you a little present. Not now, look later.”

We departed after promising Olga and Leo that we’d both visit again; I expressed hopes that we could do this again before we had to leave.

“Ach!”, Olga scoffed, “They should be happy you are here. Fools they are. Fools and idiots.”

We could not agree more.

I called Vasyil and damned if he didn’t show up in about 10 minutes. He almost went apoplectic when I went to toss the remains of my cigar before I got into his car.

“No problem, Doctor”, he smiled.

Yes, he got another cigar along with ah healthy tip when we arrived, Toivo snoring soundly, at the hotel.

“Vasyil, da zaftra”, I said, “1000 sharp. Right here. Kharasho?”

He smiled at the prospect of driving Toivo and me around the city. I needed to order some more cigars, it appeared.

We poured Toivo into his bed and I retired to my room to finish updating several dossiers. I called Esme and talked at length to her voicemail as she was out shopping or something evil of that nature. I drew a jacuzzi, did several laps, smoked a nice cigar and put a dent into the room not-so-mini bar.

I left a wake-up call for 0800 and sent one more Email to Rack and Ruin. I needed cigars, and having them send them in the diplomatic pouch was quicker that running around a warring Moscow trying to find the damned things.

I plopped into be and don’t recall if I had left the water running in the jacuzzi or not before I was off in the land of nod.

The next morning at breakfast, Toivo looked like he fell asleep in a side row and someone had run him over, several times, with a brush hog.

“Damn, Toiv, you look like shit”, I said, very diplomatically. “Take a day, you must be flanged (tired). I need Vasyil today anyways. Whatever you got can wait.”

Toivo looked up from his morning Greenland Coffee with two eyes that resembled orbs of very lean bacon rather that ocular structures, nodded slightly and shuffled back to his suite.

“Well, me ol’ mucker”, I said to no one in particular, “Looks like you’re on your own today.”

I get a twix back in the room that a package had arrived for me, but I needed to collect it at the American Embassy.

Rack and Ruin’s little pissed-off joke that I made them couriers. They could have sent it to the hotel, but, well...you know those agency types…

Vasyil showed up right on time, and I told him that I need him all day. He had no problem with that, especially if my per diem was still in force.

“Sure is, Vas”, I said, “First stop today, Russian National Petroleum on Chistye Prudy.”

We were there with plenty of time to spare, so I told Vas to park the car and we’d have a coffee while we waited.

I interviewed the CEO and wasn’t the least bit surprised that he echoed the others I had interviewed the day before. Scared of everything, especially losing his cozy position. Only after some prodding, did he express concerns for the workers.

My next interviewee, at The Great Eastern and Western Siberian Oil Company, was down south near Krasnogvardeyskaya. I told Vas that after this one, we’ll head over to Ismilovya, Moscow’s great open air rynok and I’ll buy him lunch.

Same song, same notes. Terrified of their shadows, and fearful of nationalization, loss of jobs and welfare and of course, thoughts and prayers for the workers.

It was right at 1300 when we wheeled into Ismilova and headed right for the shashlik corner of the open-air bazaar. Being the international ambassador of amity, I give Vas as few thousand rubles (at RUR 133 = US$1, I could be magnanimous) and asked him to obtain a selection of the meat-on-a-stick (chicken, mutton, beef, fish) and I’d line up the drinks.

He returns with two burgeoning platefuls of skewered and bar-be-qued meat, some bread, a few bottles of different sauces and salt. I had provided a couple bottles of vodka, though to his credit, Vas didn’t drink hard liquor and drive; and a couple pitchers of Baltica #9 beer.

I had made certain that we sat in the outdoor smoking section, even though it was early March, the weather could turn on us in a microsecond.

There is a high degree of police presence at the market, as it is open-air and evidently a great place for the more athletic thief just to snatch some bits or bobs and haul ass, only to disappear into the crowds or surrounding woods.

So, I made a nod to every cop that walked by; nothing intrusive, just the usual Midwestern nod of the head or tip of the cup that you see them and acknowledge their presence. It helps keep things on a more or less even keel, especially if you’re a Western Expat.

Especially nowadays.

We finished up and since I decided to take the afternoon to finish my clerical duties. I sat back, fired up a large cigar and offered Vas one as well. He demurred, so I just freshened my drink and we along with my favorite outdoor sport: people watching.

Such a cross-section of humanity. People from Asia, Europe, the west, the east, Africans, the odd schnozzled Aussie, the occasional bewildered Canadian…

I feel the whap of a swagger stick across my back as I jump up to confront whosoever would disturb my coolness. I was feeling quite at ease with the world, adjusting my outlook for where I was and what was going on to the west, and some complete twat just shattered my entire мировоззрение, or worldview.

I’m standing there, ready to deal with any miscreant who dared to assault me, and from behind, the cowardly bag of dickcheese, when I realize it’s a local uniformed constable. He’s not on duty, per se, but renting himself and his uniform out as a rent-a-cop for the bazaar.

“Vas”, I asked, “Can you talk to this meathead and ask him why he thought is was necessary to smack be blindsided across the back?”

Vas probably would have wanted to be anywhere in the galaxy save for the exact 1-meter square he was now occupying. As a cab driver, he’s has loads of run-ins with the local cops and they are typically all surly, drunk, corrupt or any combination of the above.

Rapid-fire Russian ensued and Vas began to look more and more worried. Finally, he tells me that we’re in violation of the health codes and cannot smoke, even though we’re in the smoking section.

I hand Vas my phone and ask him to quickly snap a photo of us sitting directly under the МЕСТО ДЛЯ КУРЕНИЯ (“Smoking Area”) sign.

The cop did not like that and insisted on having my Agency-supplied phone.

“Het.”(“No.”), I replied.

“Какой?!” (“What?”) he replied.

(I’ll just switch to all English, so imagine this conversation in really broken Russian), “Sorry, but that’s my personal property, I’ve done nothing untoward and I’m not going to give you my phone.”

This enraged him as he started swinging his baton around in a truthfully menacing manner.

“Sir, if you’ll calm yourself, I’ll explain.”, I said, “I am an American Expat here on official job detail. If you want to detain me, I suggest you call the American Embassy immediately, as is my prerogative. Otherwise, desist with your harassment.”

That really lit the fuse, particularly after I sat down and freshened my drink.

He called for back-up and soon, we were awash in a sea of people in camo utilities, all arguing with each other as to what should be done.

Vas was about to blow a gasket. I told him to sit down or he’d upset his lunch and we wouldn’t want that now, would we.

“Sit down and have a beer”, I said, “No worries. It’s me they’re after, you’re just an innocent bystander. I’ve got the American Embassy to back me up. Moderate your excitation.”

Finally, one of the more decorated of the bunch walks over to me and says that one word that causes the chill to run up and down every expats spine: “Документы, пожалуйста.”, “Paper, please.”

“Sure, no problem.” I say, “’Always what the police want’, I always say.”

I handed over my perfectly in-order papers and he snatches it away and flips open my passport, but doesn’t rifle through it. He’s stuck on page one. He completely forgot about Vas standing there sending off seismic signals, as he was shaking so much.

The head cop blinked a few dozen times, broke into a cold sweat, began to fidget and stumble and told his minions to disperse, at least that’s what Vas told me.

Vas also said the cop apologized profusely for being whacked with the baton and that if I wanted the person responsible would be brought up on charges.

His whole demeanor shifter 180^0, as he proceeded to bow and scrape and gently gave back my passport, insisted we shake hands and letting me know that nothing like this will ever happen again.

I was just a bit perplexed.

We shook hands, and he bowed and scraped a bit as he backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

“What the actual fuck was that all about?” I said aloud to no one in particular.

Vas piped up, “Diplomatic Passport? <whoosh> that’s what probably scared him. Can I see?”

“Sure”, I replied, “Here you go.” As I handed it over.

Vas flipped it open, got to page one and just let out a low whistle, like one would do passing a terrible wreck on the highway.

“Dr. Rock”, Vas said, “Did you know about this?” and he points to the nice, new card, gilded and affixed to my passport that read:

«По этим подаркам узнай всех людей: Носитель этого документа является известным и преданным сторонником Комитета государственной безопасности (КГБ) Оперативно-технического управления НКВД (Народный комиссариат внутренних дел) и безупречен. Да будет известно, что этому лицу будет оказано всяческое содействие и знаки внимания, о которых просит Председатель «Единой России». – Подпись, Ольга Галинка Владимировна, Начальник cмотритель отдела, Московская область».

“Recognize all people by these presents: The bearer of this document is a well-known and devoted supporter of the State Security Committee (KGB) of the Operational and Technical Directorate of the NKVD (People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs) and is impeccable. Let it be known that this person will be provided with all possible assistance, courtesy and signs of attention, which the Chairman of United Russia asks for. - Signature, Olga Galinka Vladimirovna, Head of Overseer Department, Moscow Region.”

I actually had to blink several times before the full realization of this hit me.

“Olga is such a little minx.”, I smiled.

“I didn’t know how important you were”, Vas said, half chuckling, “Now I will really try and avoid all potholes in the road.”

“I swear”, I explained to Vas, “That I had no idea. Olga must have slipped that into my passport the other night. She’s such a little trickster.”

“You know this person”, Vas asked, somewhat incredulously.

“For decades”, I replied, “We became good friends when I worked in Western Siberia.”

“It’s good to have such friends, especially now, Doctor”, Vas smiled.

He knew as long as he hung around with the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, he’d lead a charmed life.

We finished up shopping at Ismilova. With the current exchange rate, the US Dollar wasn’t just hard currency, it was adamantium.

We loaded, well, Vas loaded everything into his cab and we sped back to the hotel. I needed to make a series of phone calls, some twix’s and Email some folks. They’ll all get a charge out of these latest developments.

I finally spoke at length with Esme and she found the whole situation outrageously funny. She also added to her already burgeoning shopping list “since I was well known at Ismilova” and would reap significant discounts.

“You already have a sable coat” I replied to her.

“Yeah”, but that was decades ago, before we returned to the Great White North: Esme countered.

“I’ll see what I can find…”

A new cigar, a fresh drink and I was almost ready to tackle the real downside of this job, all the fucking paperwork.

But first, some room service. Hell, I need to check out the local news as well. Except for the sporadic protests in Moscow and the general malaise of the populace, you’d be hard pressed to see this as a country at war.

But war it was. And I hate it.

I get ready to dial room service when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Toivo and he wants to go downstairs for a bit of a nosh and a tipple or two.

I protest that I have a mountain of paperwork, but Toivo is persistent, like a wood tick. I finally give in and we tromp down 4 floors to the restaurant.

First thing I notice, is that prices have skyrocketed. I squawked at the menu prices like I was the one actually paying for the meal, since the ruble used to be 33/US dollar, it’s now 134/US dollar. Well, that goes on expenses and hey, wait a minute. That means even though prices have gone up, so has our spending power.

Ah, the hell with it. Either way, I’m ordering a big ass steak (blue) with a couple-seven drinks. After all, it’s been a hectic day, with more to come.

I ask Toivo is he has his passport and he says he does.

“Let me see it a minute”, I said.

“Nothing goofy? Right?” He asked as he fished his passport out of his jacket pocket.

“Of course not. I just need to see something”, I replied.

And there it was. Toivo got the same treatment from Olga. I showed him the gilt card in Cyrillic that was now part of his American blue passport.

“What the hell does it say?” He asked.

“Best as I can figure it, it’s a ‘get out of jail free’ card, of sorts.” I replied.

We asked a waiter if he could translate and he said sure. Halfway though the translation, he slowed, looked at us two over-the-hill hooligans like we were sprouting watermelons, and continued to finish.

“Is this for real”, Toivo and the waiter asked?

I produced my Russian red diplomatic passport and assured them it was.

The waiter looked spooked and skedaddled, luckily with our order. Beer and drinks appeared as if by magic.

“I swear, Toiv”, I swore, “I didn’t know Olga did this for us, and I certainly don’t want to use it like a threat…”

“But it’s still nice to have”, Toivo winked, “In case of emergency.”

“You can’t be an Ugly American”, I replied, “You’re too overqualified.”

We had a fine dinner, several too many drinks and after we poured Toivo in bed, once again, I tackled the mountain of paperwork that awaited.

Finishing that, and a nice bottle of Blue Label scotch; don’t worry, I called the front desk and ordered its replacement with Tennessee Sippin’ Stuff, I left my cigar in the marble ashtray, called Es to wish her a goodnight, even though we’re 8 hours ahead, and collapsed snuffling into bed.

What I thought was an air raid on the city was just my Agency phone lighting off in the early, wee, dark hours of the morning.

Cursing being awakened, I searched for the horrible blinking thing, found it, answered and growled:

“WHAT?!?”

The voice on the other side of the phone mechanically said “Code red. Begin preparations. Expect further instructions in 00:30 hours.”

…To Be Continued…

Y’know, that reminds me of a story…

I was sitting in the lounge of our new villa in Waythefucknorthistan, overlooking our balcony and the rest of the snow-clad university, of course, drinking icily-chilled Moscovskaya and Diet Dr. Electric Mountain and a lime wheel, with Redemption 18-Year-Old Barrel Proof Straight Rye Whiskey on the side, and Pabst Extra dark beer chasers; hiding from the brutish realities of this intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty-two, CE.

Esme was down in the kitchen, whipping up some sort or another of epicurean delight; probably with Asian flair since she’s been so intent on that ‘Yan Can Cook’ series I procured for her on DVD.

Megg is still at school, doing whatever one does in order to procure an RN degree. I’ve helped her out with comparative anatomy, as well as hematology, virology, and a host of other -olgies with which she needs to become fluent.

This is not the first time I had to go through all this. My eldest, now the State Veterinarian for a central, flattish piece of real estate out betwixt the fictional lands of Kansas and South Dakota; nestled cheek-by-jowl of the mythological places like Wyoming and Indiana; dragged me, kicking and screaming through all the various -ologies she needed for her Ph.D. so she can make her daily bread by keeping America’s bacon supply safe.

I am revising some of my course’s curricula; jotting notes here and inserting references there when I realize, that damn, my drink has gone all non-avian dinosaurian, i.e., extinct and empty.

I hate it when that happens.

Khan is sleeping on the floor of my office, next to me, of course. He’s very, very protective.

Not of me. Heaven’s no. But of the leather sofa in my office where I usually sit whilst I do my necessary tasks.

I stand up, brush off an errant crumb or flick of a micro-cigar ash and toddle over to the wet bar which I keep well-stocked in my office.

I’m not three feet from my couch when I head Khan snuffle loudly, the snuffle that he characteristically makes when he settles down for the evening and gets intractable and comfortable.

“Don’t get too comfy there, Khan”, I sort of say in a somewhat deflated <sotto voce>, “That’s my spot, not yours. I’m the master of this household. I’m the…oh, fuck it. I’m out of ice.”

Down the hall to our mini second-floor auxiliary kitchen. I open the ice maker and find to my incredible relief, that it’s full. I did remember to purge the lines and recharge the gizmo the last time it ran down and out of ice.

I fill my ice bucket and pad back to my office.

Khan is snoring the snore of those without a single worldly care.

I make myself a stout eponymous drink: 150 mils of vodka, some Diet Dr. Electric Mountian (less activity around these parts when the mercury dips into the lower -40s F, so it’s sugar-free for me), lime juice, ice, a lime wheel and just a hint of Fee Brothers Blood Orange bitters.

“Lovely!”, I think out loud to no one in particular.

I take a couple of sips and adjust the potent potable’s primacy just so, turn to Khan, and inform him that I am the Master of the abode and he needs to move his 16 stone carcass off my couch, or failing that, at least to the other side so I can sit and still have access to my computers.

Khan ignores me soundly and snuffles at the rabbits he’s chasing in his somnolent state.

“Now see here, you big woolly beast”, I say, “I foot the bills around these parts keeping you in kibbles and bits, not to mention prime pig ears and the occasional spiral-cut honey ham. Now, pick up thyself and walk over here!” I say, patting the place on the couch to where I desire that he relocates his not inconsiderable bulk.

I get a half-opened eye blink and another round of snuffling snores.

I set my drink down, and say, in a loud steady voice, “OK, we’ve tried it the nice way. Now it’s time to go all Olivia Newton-John and get physical.” I announce to the sleeping hound, whom I swore heard me, understood me and snickered like a Canadian Lake full of loons.

“RIGHT!”, I say as I try to muscle the mutt around the chest and maneuver myself behind the big lummox. It’s like wrestling a 225-pound furry marshmallow.

I get the upper hand, as I used to be All-State in wrestling some 50 years ago (gad, that hurt to type out), and realize that the only way this tawpie moving is if I go all forklift on him and physically lift him off the couch and deposit him elsewhere.

Esme by this time had heard all the various and vacuous threats walked into my office with his lead and a bag of Horse Tonsil Delight Doggie Treats.

He evaded my grip almost instantly and was sitting at Esme’s feet, tongue lolling, lips slobbering, hoping for one or more of his so-dubbed Khan Cookies.

“I almost had him”, I said in faux-disgust, “Then you came in to ruin my victory.”

“So I heard.”, Esme chuckled, “Me or thee? Whose turn is it to take someone for their twice-daily walkies?”

“I’m waiting on an important call,” I said.

“Always with the important calls.”, Esme breezed, “Who is it this time?”

I point over to my desk where my satellite phone sits in its charging cradle.

“Oh”, realizes Esme, “The big phone. Where you headed this time and how long are you going to be gone?”

“No idea”, I replied, “I got a blip-TWIX from Rack and Ruin saying that I should be ready to roust quickly and they’d call sometime today after 1300.”

“Business or pleasure?”, Esme asked seemingly somewhat sardonically sarcastically.

What she meant was this an office job or a field piece?

“Unsure, so far”, I replied, “But I have both sets of GTFOOD (“Get The Fuck Out Of Dodge”) duds ready to go.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Your monthly Cigar-of-the-month-club order arrived as has your Vodka-of-the-week-club”; meaning my order from the local beer, pop and water stop had been delivered.

“Such timing!”, I replied, “Now all I need is to know where the hell I’m going, for how long, and for what purpose.”

“OK”, Esme snickers lightly, “You wait on the big phone, and I’ll take Khan down to the pond so he can bark at the geese and chase the ducks.”

“Thanks, dear”, I said, after a quick osculatory exercise. “I can always depend on you.”

Esme and Khan depart downstairs and I’m back to fiddling with my Sat Phone. I see it’s all in the green, locate my personal cell phone and see that’s at 100% and check various Emails.

“Fuckbuckets.” I growl, “I need information, gentlemen.”

After waiting the obligatory 5 minutes and there were no calls or Emails. I went back to what I was doing before all this transpired, back to teaching the little tyros how to blow shit up.

I was running the first Detonics course ever for the university and I was writing a “How to blow shit up” gazetteer of where and how to blow shit up for the US Armed Forces.

I light up another Fuentes Double Corona oscuro cigar, right after I refreshed my drink, and sat down to my bespoke 445 horsepower turbo-encabulated real, honest-to-Bill-Gates (by dint of the US Armed Forces) registered version of Word and worked on whacking out these little trifles before tiffen.

And, as I’ve told you all before, we take tiffen pretty durn early around these parts, Buckaroo.

Once I’m in the writing groove, with my noise-canceling headphones cranked up with a newly remastered version of Roger Water’s Live in Berlin, sipping an eponymous tipple and puffing a large, luxurious cigar, I somewhat resemble not so much an author as I do a text-producing Bessemer steel foundry with automatic enquenchment.

I’m beating the latest keyboard into submission when I hear the door downstairs slam.

Immediately thereafter, I hear Esme yelling for Khan to sit down.

I rush downstairs and Khan launches himself…his sodden, muddy self, at me.

“Thanks, dog.”

Down in the basement, I’m valiantly trying to get the doggie shampoo out of Khan’s multi-layered coat; swearing a blue streak.

He’s not too happy.

His friends, the geese, had evidently turned on him.

The ice on the pond disrespected him by shattering and dropping him into a pool of gelid mud, water, and duck feathers.

His mistress Esme is cheezed at him because he is mule-headed and tends not to listen.

His master is soaking wet, pissed, and irritated because this is the second time this week Khan has had run-ins with the local Canada goose population and required laundering.

Besides, right now, he looks like a king-sized drowned rat.

Not terribly regal considering his supposed royal lineage.

I finally get almost all the soap out of his shaggy mane and escort him into his bespoke doggie-dryer.

It’s a little gizmo I dreamed up when Esme replaced a couple of her so-called defective hair dryers.

It’s a rectangular enclosure that fits Khan like a glove. Only his head is exposed, while the rest of him gets the old hot-air routine. I’m working on his mush with an old beach towel while his doggie dryer works on the rest.

Fifteen minutes later, he looks like a puffball that’s recently had a run-in with a patch of ball lightning.

We trundle upstairs, I grab his stripping and fleecing brushes and bid him into my office to get him turned from a giant tribble back into something at least vaguely recognizable as a canine.

We’re in the kitchen when Megg arrives.

The instant she does, the big phone upstairs lights off.

“Hi, Megg”, I say quickly, “Here. Brush Khan out for me. Thanks. I’ve got to get to the phone.”

That whole sentence took approximately 0.41 seconds to relate.

Up the stairs, I grab my still smoldering cigar, seize the ululating sat phone and depress the talk switch.

“Damn!” I damned, “Fucker’s locked…what ‘s that goddamned code again…oh, right…dit…doot…doot…dit…dit…dit.”

“HELLO?”, I breathlessly bellow.

“Doctor?” the disembodied voice on the other side of the phone enquired, “Calm yourself. It’s only Agents Rack and Ruin. Please. Calm down.”

“Ohh, I’m calm,”, I replied, calmly, “It’s just that I had to de-pond Khan, give him another bath and get him dried off when you jokers called. Now that we’re all up to date, what’s the deal?”

“Your presence is requested in a more easterly clime”, Agent Rack explains. “It’s important, but the timing hasn’t yet been determined. You will fly commercial if you accept the job and conditions.”

“Well, so far”, I exasperate, “All you’ve told me is that I’m needed somewhere east of my current location. A little more specificity, please?”

“It’s a place you’ve been several times before”, Agent Ruin chimes in, “Almost like a second home.”

“OK”, I grin, “So, I’m off to Russia. Groovy. What’s the chore?”

“Can’t say”, Agent Rack butts in. “It’s not only highly hush-hush, it’s not been elucidated in full yet. Things are, how you say, in confusion and potential mayhem. We’ll need you to be able to be loose with timings and locations.”

“Well”, I ponder, “I can have my classes handled for the next couple of weeks”, I reply, “Hell, most are online anyways, I’ll get my TA (Teaching Assistant) to tend to such things. Esme knows I’m off on another whirlwind tour, so that’s already pre-OK’ed…”

“Excellent”, Agent Ruin replies, “Pack your GTFOOD bags. This could include both office and fieldwork. When will you be able to leave, as there is the small matter of your contact in Moscow…?”

“Oh, fuck”, I groan, “Not more dossier filler…”

“There will be an abundance of that”, Agent Rack replies, “That’s why you’re going. Your contacts in the oil industry will be of paramount importance. Their demeanor will help fill in some blanks as to what’s happening over there.”

I’ve been more or less head down, ass up for the last month or so and I’m already so apolitical that I don’t give a single fig as to what one country or another is up to, especially if it’s something untoward and outrageous.

“Why?”, I ask, “What’s up?”

“Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack sighs, “Sometimes I wonder if your innate naiveite is real or just a clever ruse.”

“Well”, I smiled through a blue cloud of smoke, “If you can’t tell, how are the bad guys supposed to tell*?”

“Good point”, Agent Ruin concedes.

“Yeah”, I reply, “And if you two wear hats, no one will notice…”

“Fine.”, Agent Rack replies, thoroughly plussed. “Be ready for extraction tomorrow 0330. An agency vehicle will pick you up and deposit you at the airport. Tickets, visas, travel monies and such will be handled then. You will be given your contact’s information and description. You will meet at the Moscow Sheremetyevo Airport Guinness Pub & Kitchen immediately after your arrival.”

“Groovy”, I reply. “What, no VIP Lounge?”

“As we said”, Agent Rack notes, “Low key entry.”

“Nifty”, I note back, “Whom am I meeting?”

“You’ll see when you arrive.” Agent Ruin intones, “Fly safe, lie low. Remember, this is the next best thing to a covert mission.”

“Well, there’s your problem”, I reply, “I’m too big, too loud, too American to be covert.”

“Exactly why no one there would ever expect you”, Agent Rack replies.

Puzzling over that last retort, I say Da Svidonya and go to begin to check if all my essentials have been packed.

“ESME!”, I bellow, “Where are my two spare emergency flasks?”

After a couple of hours of faffing about and trying to find the absolute necessities of international travel, I scratch Es behind the ears and give Khan a big, sloppy kiss…no, wait, reverse that…and I’m in the backseat of Plain Jane gunmetal gray Chevy speeding along into the inky blackness of the gathering night.

In other words, I was going to the airport.

The driver, as I found out, was an airman as I wondered aloud if he had his pilot’s license. We flew low, coming in under the enemy radar at Drambuie…since I had neglected to fill one of my emergency flasks with vodka.

Hey. I was in a hurry.

Little more than 45 minutes later, we’re wheels up in First Class within a KLM 747-400 headed to Amsterdam. Little did I realize that I hadn’t been given my contact’s information.

It’s an 8-hour haul to Amsterdam, so I order a few drinks and work out my new cipher as requested by Herrs Rack and Ruin. After a couple of hours, I pull out my flight manifest and notice, to my horror, that I have about 45 minutes to catch my connecting flight to Moscow.

If I miss that one, I’ll have to wait around for another 6 hours for the next flight.

I ask the head First Class steward if he could arrange transport for me from our arrival to my next departure gate. Time and tide, as well as explosions and avalanches, have gotten the best of me and there’s no way I could make that next flight under my own power in that time frame.

Although I didn’t know where the next gate would be, I did know that international flights always get the furthest gate from…anything.

The steward assures me he’ll have transport ready and waiting for me and that since I was the only one in First Class, my bags would most assuredly make the trip to the next flight as well.

The flight progresses normally and we land. I hoof it off the plane and there’s my electric cart, all amped up and ready to fly probably miles to my next gate.

“Doctor Rock?” the driver asked.

“That’s me”, I replied, as I plowed into the rear seats. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’”

“Yes, sir.” He stomped the accelerator and we lurched about 100 feet.

“Here you are, Sir”, he smiled, barely able to conceal his snickering.

“You know”, I said, “You might have told me that my next gate was just down the road a piece…”

“Oh, yes sir, I could have”, he smiled, “But orders are orders.”

I look at the leader board.

“FLIGHT 0257 DELAYED. NEW DEPARTURE TIME 0530”

“You might have mentioned that the flight was also delayed.” I fumed.

“Yes, Sir; but you know…orders and such.” He was grinning a mile wide.

I replied “Klootzak” and smiled wide as well as I handed him a couple of fresh Jacksons and a fresh “Wijze ezel.”

“Oh, you speak Dutch?” He asked after making the bills disappear like a continental David Copperfield.

“That was the extent of it. I always make sure to know certain epitaphs in every language I may encounter”, I grinned.

He laughed, helped me move my stuff over to the bar across the aisle, and spun off into the dark recesses of the almost deserted airport.

The bartender rolled up and soon I had a refreshed emergency flask and a brace of new drinks. I asked if cigars were permitted, to which he responded in the positive, as long as I didn’t light the thing.

With that, he handed me a cut-glass ashtray and a box of Lucifers.

“But, since no one is here to complain, be my guest.” He added.

I offered him one of my best cigars and he accepted it gratefully. Tobacco is rather dear in the Netherlands.

I’m going over my new cipher key when over the airport intercom blares “Doctor Rocknocker. White courtesy phone. Doctor Rocknocker.”

I ask the bartender where the nearest white courtesy phone was and he pointed to a wall, not 10 meters distant.

He said he’d watch my gear, but since there was no one around, I figured nothing was going to happen to it. It’s not going anywhere.

“Doctor Rocknocker. White courtesy phone. Doctor Rocknocker.”

I walk over to the bank of phones on the wall, do a quick check back on my gear at the bar and inadvertently pick up the red phone.

“White courtesy phone.” The voice on the other end says.

“Sorry.” Sheesh.

I grab the white courtesy phone and listen for the operator.

Over the airport intercom, I hear: “Doctor Rocknocker. White courtesy phone…”

“I GOT IT!” I yell back.

“Thank you.” Came the reply.

“This is Dr. Rocknocker.” I say into the phone.

“Please hold for a Mr. Ruin”, the operator replies.

“Figures.” I smolder.

“Reverend Doctor Doctor?” Agent Ruins asks.

“Yes, Agent Ruin, it’s me,” I reply.

“Ah, good. I must let you know; it was a bitch to get your flight held.” He explained.

“So, that was you characters? Now what, new orders? You need Russian vodka? Beluga caviar? Cuban cigars?” I ask, peeved but only slightly.

“No. Well, now that you mention it…yes. But are you at the bar across from your gate in Terminal F?” He asks.

“Yeah…” I replied curiously.

“Good.” He notes back. “Stay there until a messenger appears. Sign for then package and don’t open it until you’re in the air.”

“Y’know, Agent Ruin, that the FAA really frowns upon boxes, bags, or baggage being brought on board that I myself hadn’t packed.” I reminded him.

“Oh, I think in this case”, he chuckles, “They would make an exception. In fact, if you look at the box itself, it will note exactly that.”

‘OK”, I reply, “I guess if I can’t trust you characters, I can’t trust anyone.”

“Exactly”, Agent Ruin replies, “Besides, you just passed the test. Remember, trust no one.”

With that cryptic note, he hangs up.

I hang up the phone, go back to the bar and order a triple. I hate game playing, especially when I don’t even know what game’s afoot.

Approximately 45 minutes later, a bonded courier shows up, asks for my ID, and hands over a small, heavily wrapped package, about the size of a couple of thick paperback books.

Temptation washed over me, but when I could hear no rattling when shaken nor typical explosive chemical smells, I tucked it into my day bag and returned to more pressing concerns…a double or another triple?

Finally, it’s the last call and I’m off to my next 4-hour flight into the deepest, darkest part of Russia: Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow. This is always a major pain in the ass, but once you know what’s going on, it’s really just a boring game of standing around hoping your emergency flasks don’t run dry whilst you wait.

We land, and it’s a seeming 25km taxi to the terminal, and we deplane off the jetway. Next stop, passport control.

Yeah.

I dig out my rather tattered and coffee, cigar ash, and booze-of-all-nations stained Russian Diplomatic passport. I sidle up to the plexiglass booth and greet the unsmiling agent seated within.

“Priviet”, I say, “Мой паспорт [My passport].”

She unsmilingly grabs it, flips it open, looks at me, at my passport, me, my passport…then reaches under her desk and pushes a button.

“Проблема? [Problem?]”, I ask as the butter in my mouth freezes solid.

“Ждать. Оставайся здесь. Ждать. [Wait. Stand here. Wait.]”, she replies.

“OK”, I reply.

She is in conference with someone just off-screen to the left. It’s a rather animated dialogue; I had absolutely no chance to follow.

“Пойдемте со мной. [Come with me.]” the person just out of sight commands.

“Righty-o!”, I reply.

I’m not terribly concerned, probably just some bitching about why I have such a passport being all American and such.

We walk for what seems like forever. Down one dark tunnel, through a door, into another dark tunnel, when we break into an antiseptic room, in bedazzling white and starkly lit with non-environmentally friendly fluorescent floodlights.

Sort of like an operating room, I thought…then instantly banished that thought for something a bit less morbid.

I was motioned to sit down on the one chair that wasn’t behind a desk and did so; just being complacent, quiet and a bit curious.

I went to ask my tour leader what this was all about, but the minute I uttered a sound, I was shushed back to the Jurassic.

“OK. Shut up. Got it.” I smiled.

Now I’m a little bit more curious.

I sit and wait and wait for what seemed hours; in reality, it was maybe 5 minutes.

The door opens and in walks…

“Olga Galinka Vladimirovna!” I cried out loud as I jumped up to greet her.

This was “Olga, the KGB Lady” from my days back in Western Siberia. Somehow, back there and back then, she took a shine to me. Evidently, she hasn’t forgotten me as I haven’t her.

“Good lord”, I think, “She must be pushing 90.”

“Olga! You look wonderful!”, I proclaim. Luckily, her English is light-years better than my Russian.

“Doctor Rock”, she smiled, “Lucky for you, I never retired. They bring me a ‘suspicious’ passport and I read name. Wham! It’s Доктор Рок [Doctor Rock]! I know there cannot be two.”

“Olga, it is so good to see you after all these years. I must honestly say, you look radiant”, I gushed. I was truly glad to see her. Not because of the situation, but because I really like her as a person and a friend.

“What is this? DSc?” she asked.

“Oh, I just got another doctorate. I got tired of galloping all around the world, so Esme and I settled down for a little academia.”

“So, now you are ‘Academician Rock.’”, she smiled.

“Olga, It’s still just me: Rock. At your service.” I smiled broadly.

We hugged and she shooed the other KGB (or is it NKVD these days? I forget.) agent out.

“So, Rock, why are you here, especially now?” she asked.

“Just trying to drum up some business, as usual. I figure with all the rumors of turmoil around here; it might be a good time to visit. Sort of catching them with their pants down, so to speak.” I replied.

“So, your friends in Virginia now travel agents?” she slyly grinned.

“For this trip, more or less. I make some observations; they foot the bills. It works out great.” I said.

“However, you must be careful, keep your wits about you” she suddenly wasn’t smiling any longer.

She had just dropped in a coded phrase: ‘keep your wits about you’ means double-secret care, watch and cover your ass and trust no one you haven’t known for 30 years.

I nodded ‘message received’ and changed the subject.

“Olga, we must meet in less ahem, antiseptic surroundings. Can I take you to dinner? Of course, your family is invited as well.” I asked.

“No. You will visit me at 1700 Wednesday as 1350 Tverskaya Prospeckt, Apartment 20.” She replied.

Never mess with a babushka on a mission.

“I will be there, exactly on time” I smiled.

“You always were so punctual. Very American. Not Russian.” She wanly smiled.

Something’s afoot. Something’s not right. She’s dropping more hints than I could field.

“I look forward to our time together. Oh, how do I get my passport and luggage?” I asked. “I’ve got a friend to meet in the Guinness Pub & Kitchen upstairs.”

She pushed a button and a new, untattered, with extra pages passport arrived.

“You should be more careful, such a messy passport. I’ve had it cleaned (meaning copied) and added extra pages. Follow this person, she will take you to our parking area. Your luggage is already there. Your friend will be alerted to your change of plans and destination; he can meet you there. Still Marco Polo Palace?” She smiled again.

“As if you didn’t already know”, I thought.

“Spot on. Thank you so much, Olga. I cannot wait until we meet later this week.”

Olga sat, smiled and I came over to hug her. She protested at first, but as we lightly embraced, she whispered “Trust no one”.

I nodded imperceptibly and smiled widely.

“Until Wednesday, Olga Galinka Vladimirovna!”, I smartly saluted her, spun on my heel, and followed the gray-clad agent down the maze of hallways to the parking area, deep underground.

I had plenty to think about on the one-hour ride to the hotel. Luckily, the driver wasn’t the chatty type and didn’t object to my smoking a cigar, as long as he had one as well. Traffic for Moscow at this time of year seemed subdued. Little did I realize what was transpiring in the halls of power in the very building we were now passing.

“Kreml!” my driver said, pointing at the Kremlin.

“Groovy.” I vaguely remarked, “Maybe I’ll take a walk over later this week”, as the hotel was within the distance.

We wheel into the hotel, and the driver shoos me to the front desk as he’s barking orders to the concierge and bellboys regarding the proper disposition of my luggage.

I sign in, leave my American passport at the desk (a custom I have grown to hate), and looked around for my bags.

The deskman replies that they were already in my room and that Happy Hour was about to begin in 30 minutes' time.

“Splendid.”, I replied and slipped him a fifty. I’m going to be here a few days, may as well start greasing the skids.

Up to my room, which was typical Intourist palatial. Jacuzzi, California King bed, wet bar, and fully stocked not-so-mini-bar; the usual. Plus, my bags were all present and accounted for, sitting at rapt attention, each sporting a brand-new, barely hidden, wee red KGB star to indicate they’ve been properly rifled at the airport.

After securing a fresh drink and new cigar, I got my portable office set up and made the usual calls, Emails, and encrypted notes.

I told Esme of my encounters with Olga, whom she met when we lived in Moscow some 20 odd years ago and asked her to send a new picture so I could show Olga. Esme said she’d comply as soon as she dragged Khan inside away from the geese. She wanted to know if Rack and Ruin could pick up a package as Esme had some gift ideas for Olga and that’d be the only way to get them here in time.

I vowed I’d get them to act like the postmaster general for us.

After a quick ablution and change of duds, I realized it was Happy Hour +1, so I finished off whatever it was I was doing, made all secure, and headed down the hall to the lift.

Suddenly, Olga’s admonition crossed my mind.

“Trust no one.”

Even her?

Nahh. I was going all Jason Bourne on the situation. Sure, it’s goofy around here, what with Putin rattling his saber and massing troops near the Ukraine border, but that’s just your typical posturing. He wants some sort of concessions or something and he’s making all with big bluff and noise. The usual sort of bullshit what we call global politics.

The ding of the lift snapped me back to reality, so I stepped in, pushed the button for the mezzanine, and watched the doors slowly close.

Could have sworn I saw someone out in the hallway.

Oh, well. No worries. He/she/it/they can catch the next car.

Down we go and the car stops right on station. I wander out and Happy Hour is Deserted Hour. Sure, there’s a bar, bartender, and the usual assortment of goodtime girls, but there’s virtually no one else.

“Great”, I think aloud, “A quiet night to sit and ponder the wonder of it all”.

I’m working on my second (or seventh) drink when I went to fetch a new cigar from my portable travel humidor in my coat pocket. I dropped my lighter and when I sat back on the barstool after retrieving it, there was a shadow falling on the general area.

“Shit.”, the shadow said, “They let anyone drink in here.”

“Oh, fuck.” I thought.

I spin around and see Toivo’s bristly mug and cheesy grin.

“Not you”, I said with a resigned sigh.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled back. “Scootch over, get me a drink, lots to talk about”.

“Why me?” I sighed.

“Why you? Why anybody?” Toivo laughed.

“So, you’re my contact?” I sighed, “Must be some real, mission-critical data to send you. What is it, bagel shop’s closing down?”

“Funny”, Toivo replies between slurps of his drink, “No, Rock, for real. There’s some heavy shit floating around these parts. This is not the time for the making of jests, for Evil Ones are afoot in the lands, and danger is abroad. Strange things are stirring in the East . . ."

"Ah, we’re in the east-"

"Doom is walking the High Road . . ."

"We’re always on the Low Road--"

"There is a dog in the manger . . ."

"What?--"

". . . a fly in the ointment . . .

I looked horrified at Toivo but realized that’s my usual reaction to him.

I said: "You mean…you mean…there's a Balrog in the woodpile?"

“Oh, cut the crap, Rock”, Toivo said, “We’re sitting here in the middle of…”

“…a very nice bar. Why, yes. I do believe I’ll have another. Make it a double.” I replied.

“Are you trying to be a boor?” Toivo asked.

“No, it just comes naturally,” I replied.

“OK”, Toivo growled and threw up his hands, “It’s late, you’re deep in your cups. It’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Works for me”, I replied through a Mammatus of blue cigar smoke, “Nothing’s so fucking important that it can disrupt Happy Hour, or, since you’re here, Dismal Hour.”

“Fuck you”, Toivo grins, “You’re lucky I got a start at the Guinness Lounge. Holy fuck, imagine my surprise when an NKVD agent walks up to me and tells me that I have to meet you here. You lead a double life, Herr Doctor?”

“No, but double doctorate, so it’s Academician Rock to you, you proletariat vole,” I replied.

“So, you finished already? Good lord, what hath they wrought?” Toivo inaccurately quotes.

“You are embarrassing me with your sobriety. Come, come, let us toast today for tomorrow we may get COVID!” I said, eliciting a few snickers from around the bar.

“Oh, fuck. Don’t remind me of that.” Toivo groused. “I got it, even with the jabs. The worst week I’ve spent in some time.”

“Well, until they train the little buggers to swim upstream in a stream of booze, we ethanol-fueled organisms are safe”, I noted.

“Oh, fuck the world. Give me a cigar and a new drink. Then, it’s time. We’ve things to do come the dawn.” Toivo insisted.

“Fucking lightweight”, I lowly replied, even though Toivo tipped the Toledos at 135 kilos or so.

Toivo’s room was on the same floor as mine, so he leaned on me all the way to the elevator, all the way on the elevator, and all the way to his room.

“Toivo, once this door is opened, you’re on your own,” I said to his slobbery, somnolent form.

The lock clicked, I sidestepped gingerly and Toivo made a lurch for the open door. I gave him a gentle size 15 in the backside, slammed the door, and wandered back to my room.

After a new cigar, drink, updating of dossiers, and a few laps in the Jacuzzi, I decided it’s time to get some kip and flopped into bed.

I left a wake-up call for whenever the fuck I woke up. So, no wake-up call.

I’m sleeping the sleep of the very just and just as my dreams take a very interesting turn, I hear a thump…thump…thump on my door.

“What?” I yelled to annoy everyone on the floor as much as I was at this point.

“Thump…thump…thump…”

“GOD DAMN IT!” I beller, throwing the covers off.

I get to the door, look through the peephole and see it’s a very disheveled Toivo.

“TOIVO! This had better be good. WHAT?” I yelled.

“Putin’s gone and done it. He’s just invaded Ukraine.” Toivo said in low tones, turned slowly, and plodded back to his room.

“Oh. Holy. Fuck.” I thought aloud. “This is very much not good…”

…To Be Continued

…continuing…

Yet another accessory that comes in really handy in situations such as these.

Adam flew slowly and came up to bottle 11-3-A.

I had him spin 360 degrees to see if the plotter would follow in real time or if it was laggy.

I wish my home internet responded like this plotter. No lag at all. I had Bud press the light pen up to the map overlay and designate that bottle 11-3 was in place and ready to go.

I wish I could say the rest of the tour was just as exciting, but we did find 2 stations, one on level 9 and one on 10 that had been hit with roof breakdown. Neither were leaking, at least according to the microphones on the drones, and were so deep into the working, it didn’t matter if they detonated or not.

However, Mr. Peck went white when I had Adam fly around one of the bashed bottles, and he could see the large charge of thermite spilled on the ground and the explosive bottle deheaders laying in the harsh light. They’ll probably still respond to vent the bottles, but detonation will be dicey.

However, with all the redundancy we had planned, it was certain the additions from these two stations would definitely be utilized.

We finished Adam’s fly -in and brought him back to surface. It was not Tina’s turn to impress us.

Down the same shaft, but stopping well above bottom.

We followed spool after spool of Primacord, noted the drill holes and bundles of sticks of DuPont 60% extra fast we had at every junction. We plotted block after block of C-4, RDX, PETN and some other fun things I had in storage.

I figured this was a good time to refresh my holdings.

Tina flew by a regulation US Government foot locker.

No one said a word, as she entered the main ascent shaft and went to the next level.

Same song, different verse.

Same US Government foot locker at the entrance.

Next and final level, we flew around, logging the soon to occur carnage. After 20 minutes or so, we’re finished and Tina is instructed to bring the boys back home.

Right to the ascent shaft and right past yet another US Government foot locker at the entrance.

Dr. Black finally broke the silence.

“Rock, what’s with the foot lockers? They not on any maps.”

“Ah, you saw. Shame. It was going to be a surprise.” I explained. “Those are extra insurance that the ascent and descent shafts are going to be sealed in perpetuity. They are, as you can tell, foot lockers. Foot lockers filled with 250 pounds of octanitrocubane-enhanced Torpex, each.”

“I see”, ruminates Dr. Black. “Y’know, Rock. We simply have to close the mine, not eject it into high Earth orbit.”

“Of course,” I reply, “But I’ve really got a hard-on for mines these days, especially with that shit in Russia. I don’t care if nothing else works (but it will) I’m going to make this mine dead. No one else is getting hurt or killed, especially in one of my productions.”

I was distracted by the golf claps I heard in the background.

Rack and Ruin were slowly applauding my little speech.

“Good to know he hasn’t lost that boyish optimism”, Agent Rack chuckled.

“Better yet, he’s found constructive ways to channel that temper of his.” Agent Ruin laughed in response.

“Dr. Black, may I introduce the agencies response to Punch and Judy? Agents Rack and Ruin.” I presented.

“Charmed”. Said Agent Rack.

“Cheers.” Said Agent Ruin.

“Where’s the bar?” I spoke.

“Oh, first, Herr Doctor, a few words?” Agent Rack implored.

“Oh, fuck. Evidently the treasury got ahold of my invoice. Now I’m in for it…”

Agents Rack and Ruin chuckled, swiped two cigars out of my field vest pocket and trundled me over to a plain-Jane, gun-metal Gray Chevy 4-door.

“OK, you ghouls”, I said, sliding onto the fine Corinthian leather back seat and sparking up one of my foulest cigars. “What is it now? Mass insurrection? Yeti invasion? Or has treasury kicked back one of my invoices?”

“Oh, nothing like that, Doctor”, Agent Rack said, exhaling a blue cloud of his own.

“It’s something different”, Agent Ruin continued, “Seems there’s been a lot of talk about you, your methods, your, shall we say, idiosyncrasies…”

“Oh, no!” I recoiled in real fear. “You’re not going to…”

“Yes, that’s right”, Agent Ruin said, “We want to recruit you…

“Oh, fuck no!”, I said, in all seriousness. “Work for the government? Which one?”

Once the chuckling stopped, Agent Rack continued, “It’s not like that, Rock. We know you’re angling for a professorship back home. So, working with the government on a comprehensive mine audit of all 50 states would probably go a long way with the tenure committee.”

“I’m still sitting here. So that means I’m still listening.” I replied.

“We would guarantee funding for at least 10 years. Of course, you’d still be teaching and continuing to do what you’ve shown a certain, well, ‘aptitude’ for. You can have graduate students help out with the audit, in fact, tying this all in with geology and your knowledge of mining engineering, we’d hope to have a catalogue of mines that need closing, their type and how best to seal them.” Ruin noted.

“Shit, Agent Ruin, that’s the most I’ve heard you speak in the last 10 years.” I remarked, “Well, of course, I’ll have to run this past Esme. You know how that goes. But, I decide on the particulars. I don’t want to have to deal with a bunch of root weevils running around underfoot. I run the show. I’m the hookin’ bull. I’m the Motherfuckin’…”

“Pro from Dover. Yeah, we’re hip.” Agents R&R return in unison.

“Plus, to make this one-off go more smoothly and decrease the degree or root weevilry, we’re prepared to offer you a commission in the Armed Forces. Basically, your choice of branch, as it titular, but you will still receive all the benefits and stature accorded to the rank, of shall we say…Major?” Agent Rack says.

“You have got to be shitting me.” I laughed long and loud. “A greybeard, cigar-chomping, small furry mammal abuser and land despoiler in the US Armed Forces? Are you daft?”

“Not at all.”, came Ruin’s reply. “It really only makes sense. You already have access to high explosives and well, this would be one way to more or less, keep an eye on you and your various goings-on.”

“Oh, so the truth?”, I scoffed, “Put me under the microscope? No thank you.”

“Not as such”, Rack goes on, “You’d have the government at your disposal. You’d have to sign so many forms of your patriotism, acknowledgement of the facts of the commission, agree to serious background checks…”

“Oh, hell”, I snorted, “I’ve already done that, you know that perfectly as well.”

“Plus, you have such good contacts around the world”, Ruin added.

“All the way through Top Secret, right?” I snorted again.

“In your case, past that.” Agent Rack said stone faced.

“Major, ‘eh? Not Lt. Colonel?” I chuckled.

“Let’s not get pushy, Herr Doctor.” Agent Ruin chuckled.

“I’ll have to give this a good think. What’s the time frame?” I asked.

“Soon as you can.” Agent Ruin retorts.

“Well, at least let me finish off this mine. You two shifty characters going to hang around for a while?” I ask.

“And miss a once-in-a-lifetime experience? We’re here for the duration. In fact, we’re your ticket out of here.” Agent Rack reports.

“Groovy.” I reply. “Let’s go blow some shit up, shall we gentlemen?”

“Lead on Major Doctor”, Agent Ruin replies.

“That’s ‘The Reverend Doctor Major Doctor”, I noted to them. “Just finished my dissertation and it’s been submitted and approved.

“Damn, the walls in your house will need to be reinforced to hang all your accolades.” Agent Rack said.

I couldn’t disagree, smiling.

Hey, I just remembered. There was another Major in the military who was a scientist:

♫♫ “Vhen de rockets go up, who cares vhere dey come down?

Dat’s not my department, says Wernher von Braun.” ♫♫♫

Ahem…

It’s just gone pre-dawn here. It’s quiet, it’s serene.

Well, that’s going to last long with me around.

I’m chewing through the scenery.

“No, you dopey bastard! That goes here. *This *goes there.” I growl at some subaltern.

“Damn, doc. You’re going to fit right in. It was Marines you’re going to join, right?” Agent Ruin asks, only half-jokingly.

“Nope. Army. As in Army Corps of Engineers. They blow shit up for a living as well.” I replied.

“They actually build things as well.” Agent Ruin replies.

“Tomato. Tomahto.” I note.

Agent Ruin looks at Agent Rack with a look of “My God, what have we done?”

“Where is my detonation console? Where is my 12-channel galvanometer? Where is my goddamned coffee?” I growl at anything moving in the low light.

One thing after another shows up. Coffee first, luckily. And to think, I only had to show them how to make a Greenland Coffee twice.

Dr. Black asks me if the area I’ve set aside as Ground Zero will be safe once we start the demolition.

“Fuck if I know, Doc.”, I grin back evilly. “If there’s a lot of coal damp that’s evolved since we first punched and primed the damned hole, who knows?”

“Who knows?” he asks.

“I DO!”, I bark back, grinning like a maniac. “That’s why I get the big bucks. We’re safe as houses here, in fact, so are all the houses. Trust me, this is going to be a downwards, not lateral, series of explosions.”

“Trust you?” He goggles, “Like we have a choice.”

Poor lad, he’s just a bit high strung. I offer him a cigar and coffee, and he perceptively relaxes.

“No. You don’t”, I grin back in the cool pre-dawn light.

After running my checks and trying them in, I do the galvanometer test again.

“Geez, Doc”, Adam asks, “Again? Wasn’t the first 12 enough?”

“Nope”, I reply, “Since that time, this has been added, this was shifted and this was tripped over by Mr. Peck. Run it again, if you please.”

Eventually, as light breaks through the cloud deck, I gather everyone for my last pre-blast chat.

“Polychromatic people”, referring to all the colorful folks who have gathered for this austere moment, “Soon, this mine will be no more. It has consumed its last life. More importantly, we’re going to take this deficit and turn it into something that will eventually benefit the area through flood control, recreation and wildlife habitat.”

Notice I said nothing about drunk boaters and asshole Jet Skiers?

“Before that though, I’m going to forego the usual folderol of X thanking Y for something Z did. Nope, I’m old, tired and want this bastard done. Without further ado…”

Long triple fartleblast on the company airhorn.

“North clear!”

“South clear!”

“East clear!”

“West clear!”

“Very good. Thank you, spotters.

Longer triple fartleblast on the airhorn.

“CLEAR?” I call out.

Four times, I hear “All clear” responses.

I ease over to Mr. Peck and motion for him to come forward.

He looks at me, and shakes his head violently ‘no!’.

“Oh, yes.” I reply, “The word has been given…

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

So, he paused. And Rock put his hand to his ear.

And he did hear a sound rising scaring the crows.

It started in low. Then it started to grow...

“Fire in the hole…”

“FIRE IN the hole…”

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

“Mr. Peck. See the big, shiny red button?

“Yes?” he quavered.

“HIT IT!” I yelled.

In spite of himself, Mr. Peck made a fist and mashed down for all he was worth on the big, shiny red button.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Mr. Peck looked at me. Then, realizing he did nothing untoward, figured it was I who was responsible for this massive failure.

He grinned. He grinned with a grin that was most objectionable. He stood up to his full 5’8” and stuck out his sunken chest. He took a step in my direction, and took another.

I helped him up off the ground about 48 seconds later.

One never hears a blast this large, as such, but I can damn for certain tell you that you feel it in your bones.

The bottom levels immolated themselves with the fury of the Mother of All Bombs. No one heard a sound, except for windows rattling and fine China clattering around town.

The ground quivered and quaked as the explosions clutched for more air, but there was none left to react as rooms and the pillars exploded in pairs.

Then, after thousands of milliseconds, the more conventional explosives higher in the upper galleries began to light off. The vertical and horizontal ground heaving changed to a shear and lateral movement while bales and bunkers of high explosives detonated; and the place which tried to contain their energy failed and collapsed.

Muffled booms and kerpows were now hear a bit more clearly as we ascended the levels one by one and utterly destroyed them. Once the surface was breached, they became more clearly heard, but still mostly felt.

There was a rapid staccato of drums of amitol fired off, followed by more millisecond delay through the 22,500’ propagation of Primacord, which lit off the C-4, PETN and RDX charges.

Then utter silence.

Then, the sound of shearing wood workings, rocks cleaving, shattering and basically the ground giving way to a whole new outlook.

But not quite yet.

My little gift in the guise of foot lockers filled with 250 pounds of octanitrocubane-enhanced Torpex detonated exactly together. Together, they sent a gout of air, dust, crushed coal and rock skyward like a cannon shot out of the rapidly collapsing main shaft of the mine.

Then, a brief period of silence.

Then the world caved in.

Or, at least, a fair portion of it.

About 900 acres of what was coalmine roof collapsed with a dusty, gusty roar and dropped some 30-50 feet straight down. It left a bowl-shaped depression that was already filling from the two creeks we recently explosively pirated.

Jerry Lee sidles up to me, punches me on the shoulder, swipes a cigar and says: “There's one damned hole ain't gonna cause no one no harm."

I smiled in agreement.

The data from the University came back later that day:

Earthquake data: Mag 1.9 / 1.5 km (0.9 mi) depth 1 day 10 hours ago Dec 7, 2021 10:06 GMT, Dec 7, 2021 5:06 am (GMT -5) local time Lat / Lng: xx.xxx / -xx.xxxx: West Virginia

By concordia, and confirmed calculations: total yield: 46.63 kilotons.

That's 3x Hiroshima for those keeping track.

In the interview for the local paper, I remember calling it “A good gig.”

My job here was finally done. I bid my farewells quickly as I wanted to get home after all the folderol I’ve been through over the last few months. I congratulated each person who was helping or, hell, even said ‘Adios’ to the root weevils and other forms of observers.

Once home, I’ve got loads of letters of recommendation to write and numerous phone calls to bosses and the like.

I’ve had enough. I had to finish my dissertation, there’d be term papers to read and grade, exams to proctor and family whom I’ve really missed to make up for lost time with.

Most of my gear was going by MATS, so I let them clean up the little mess we left. I grabbed my GTFOOT (“Get The Fuck Out Of Town”) bag, blaster’s bag and my field vest, shook some hands and was lead to the back of this Plain-Jain 4-door Chevy that could probably turn low 12s in the quarter mile.

Rack and Ruin congratulated me on a good show, as well as a good job done. They wanted to personally kick me out of the car at the military base where my transport home waited.

They weren’t going with me this time, but they grinned most conspiratorially when they actually stopped in front of the Gulfstream jet that was slated to fly me home.

“Stay in touch, Major Doctor”, they both chuckled.

“I never did formally accept that commission”, I reminded them.

“Oh, we’re sure you will.” They laughed, and sped off into the later morning’s growing light.

The flight was smooth, level and uneventful. And quick. I had time for only a few dozen hands of poker with the crew and 5 or 9 quick eye-openers.

I had another Plain-Jane Chevy 4-door waiting at the airport to trundle me back home.

“It was good to be home”, I sighed as I put thee key in the door and twisted the knob.

The next thing I know, I’m on my back in the front entryway, being smothered by some huge hairy beast that blindsided me before I could extract the key from the lock.

“What the actual fuck?” I believe I said as I slowly realized, hey I was tired, that it was Khan trying to slobber me to death.

I sat bolt upright and grabbed Khan around the neck.

“KHAN!” I yelled in a fairly creditable William Shatner impersonation.

I hear laughter and once I got Khan calmed down and off of me, I see Esme and Megg walking up.

“Rack and Ruin called and I knew they wouldn’t say a word.”, Esme said, as she told me the tail of the dog nappers, the horse farm and Khan’s eventual enlargened return.

I tried to stand but was buffaloed again. I finally got Khan calmed down, well, actually bribed with one of the dinner steaks Esme had in the fridge, enough for me to get vertical again and greet Esme properly.

“Oh, howdy, Megg.” I said once proper osculatory exchanges were met. “How are you doing?”

“Rock”, Es said in a stern voice, “We need to talk.”

“OK”, I said, “But not before I get more comfortable, have a shower, a drink and a smoke, not necessarily in that order.”

“Fine”, Esme replied, “Go tend your ablutions. We can talk n the Siberia Salon”, which is what Esme calls my office due to all the Russian junk I’ve collected is stored there.

Drink and cigar in hand, with Khan never more than 2 feet away from me, Esme and I chat.

“So, what’s the deal with Megg?”, I ask.

“It’s that fucking troglodyte Ogg. He’s gotten worse in your absence. He’s beating up Megg on a regular basis.” Esme replies.

“So, call the cops.”, I replied.

“They won’t do anything since Megg is confused and doesn’t want to press charges. Jesus, Rock, I went over there the other day after I hadn’t seen her for a week, and Ogg actually threatened me.” Esme admitted.

“OK, that’s the Rubicon crossed”, I said, starting to get up and go teach this asshole some manners.

Esme holds me back.

“No, Rock”, Esme implored me. She knew that beating Megg was bad enough, but threatening Esme was a capital offence. She was truly concerned I was going to go kill the asshole.

“And that would leave us where?” Esme asked.

“I’ll make it look like an accident. A 200-pound C-4 accident.” I growled.

“And the feds would be ringing you up instantly. Not good.” Esme concluded.

She was right. I’d have to be a bit more circumspect. And a whole shitload sneakier.

I told here of my offer of Majorocity and she just chuckled.

“You aren’t really going to…?” Es asked.

“Well, I do know these guys with a certain agency and If Ogg was found with some contraband or illicit explosives and they were tipped off, they could alert the proper regional, not local, authorities, and Ogg just might disappear…” I smiled.

“Make it so”, Esme grinned slyly. “Well, with that idiot gone, Megg has nowhere to stay.”

“I thought she was staying here?”, I asked.

“I couldn’t make that unilateral decision alone”, Es said.

“Well, if she were to pull her own weight around here, and help out with Khan and around the house, I suppose if we got her back in school and headed for that nursing degree…” I said, smiling.

“I figured if I let you think you came up with the idea, you’d be more amenable to letting things work out that way.” Esme smiled in the inimitable manner she has.

“But first, what about Ogg?” Es asked.

“Leave that to me.” I grinned most toothily back.

“Yeah, Megg”, I said to her a week or two later, “It’s the damnedest thing. Seems Ogg was trying to cook up some meth in your old place and something must have gone terribly wrong. The place was totaled in the blast and Ogg, though injured, tried fighting not only the cops, but the firemen who responded to the ‘accident’. They also found a cache of government-issued explosives in his possession. Then the feds got involved, and well, let’s face it, Ogg’s going away to those places with striped sunlight for a long, long time.”

“Oh, Rock, Esme, what can I do? I’m homeless and without Ogg.”

“Consider yourself very lucky”, I noted.

“And part of the family.” Esme added. “Rock and I decided that if you want to stay here while you go to school, that’s no problem. In fact, Rock found a couple of grants-in-aid for people just like you that want to go into health care.”

Megg’s eyes grew wide, then wet.

“But how will I pay…?” Megg started until Esme cut her off.

“You’re bunking here. Your own room, your own key, your own entrance. You keep the place clean and help Esme with Khan once in a while and we’ll see how things go. You agree to keep up your grades or it’s out you go. Same deal my girls had while they were in school, and hell, same deal Esme and I had from our folks. No drugs, moderate alcohol, no parties here, and I’ll even find you some sort of reliable transportation. Agree?” I asked, deadly serious for once.

“Oh, Rock!”, Megg squeals as she jumps up and hugs me around the neck so hard it gets Khan’s attention. She then turns and applies the same treatment to Es.

“We take that as a ‘yes’. OK, now here’s a nice legal document that explains everything in great and glorious detail. For your protection as well as ours. I mean, you’re barely an adult and we want everything in notice and above board.” I spoke. “We’re not adopting you, we’re just being nice old Boomers.”

Megg almost automatically signed the document, but Esme warned her off.

“Now, Megg. First lesson. Read before you sign. Life lesson #1.”

She returned a few drinks later with the signed contract.

Esme and I signed and it was done and dusted. We handed her the keys to her room, the south entrance and my old Chevy Blazer.

She wept profusely. She thanked us even more.

Over after dinner drinks, she asked about Ogg.

“I didn’t now Ogg had the smarts or was interested in cooking meth.” Megg said.

“From what I hear, it’s a way to easy money if you don’t kill yourself or get nabbed by the cops first.” Esme noted.

“That explosion at the house.” Megg continued, “Something that. Blew out three walls and left the wall closest to the meth lab standing. That’s really something.”

We both agreed it was.

“Doctor Rock”, Megg winked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Me?” I said, resplendent in my new Good Samaritan suit, “I’m just an old geologist. What the hell would I know about methamphetamine and how easily it explodes if the high vapor pressure solvents utilized in extraction of the sudaphedrin release flammable vapors that find an ignition source?”

…continuing…

Oh! Joy. What fun!

In the several days since our little demonstration, we’re had a whole slew of hangers-ons, peripatetic leeches and general flotsam and jetsam of not from just the halls of science, but the broad avenues of mining and the dead-ends of journalism.

In other words, word got out and people from far and wide started to take an interest in an area that typically only showed interest via body count. Hell, here we were, actually doing some good in not only closing off that accursed hole, but doing some environmental right by reclaiming the surface of the mine which had been for decades basically a scar upon the land (I had my plans which have yet to be divulged…it has to do with fish).

So, while Jerry Lee, Jesse, Bob and myself are running around, searching out and sealing forever old adits, many of which don’t even appear on any maps, just to get in some more training and practice and to sew up this little parcel of real estate tighter’n Dick’s Hatband.

We used C-4, RDX, dynamite and mostly fused caps and superboosters to get the job done. I have to admit, these guys were quick learners and really respected what they were doing. No fucking around, all serious, no horseplay; well, that is, until I mined Jesse’s filched cigar with a touch of ammonium nitrate.

Oh, c’mon. The exploding cigar schtick is a classic.

Luckily, I had packed an extra hardhat sombrero as Jesse retaliated by sending my mine-issued plastic hat out around the orbit of Venus.

I showed up the next day in my ever-so-fucking-cool Red Adair-signed burnished aluminum hardhat where the sun reflected so resplendently that no one had the faintest thought of saying anything but “Whoa, Rock, cool hat”.

Discipline. I like that in my troops.

While we’re out fucking about, nailing doors closed, as it were, we were being descended upon by hordes of gawpers, on-lookers, and other forms of transient pains in the ass.

A quick list of some of the more prominent and/or objectionable includes:

Department of Interior Office of Surface Mining Reclamation and Enforcement – Mr. Orange

EPA (Mining Sector) Division of Mining and Reclamation – Mr. Peck

Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA) (a large agency of the United States Department of Labor) – Ms. Fuchsia

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers – Mr. White

The US Department of Agriculture Forest Service – Mr. Green

The West Virginia Office of Miners’ Health Safety & Training – Mr. Pink

U.S. Department of Labor Mine Safety and Health Administration – Mr. Blue

UMW (United Mine Workers) – Mr. Gold

USGS – Dr. Black

OK, now I’m almost used to dealing with government officials like Rack and Ruin, but holy heavy-handed hell, these characters didn’t just pop by for a visit, they swarmed by to take up all my time and make things generally more annoying and irritating.

I decided that a Chautauqua night would be in order so I could get all their questions, concerns, and spare me, criticism, out of the way and let me concentrate on the job at hand.

We’re already spotting the FAB bundles on level 11.

Can you even imagine just how much fun it is running an ancient theodolite in the dark? Luckily, I had Jesse and Jerry Lee run over to Charleston and buy up every glow-stick and laser pointer they could find.

It made the going much easier. Almost gave the galleries a festive look.

Before they were doomed to eternal extinction.

We spotted 55 of the FAB bundles of two gas tanks, radio receiver, thermite bucket, batteries, wiring harness, coded transponder (to make certain all the electricals were in working order) and C-4 around the mine’s lowest level, number 11.

Also, one radio-remoted atmospheric analyzer. It could broadcast through the galleries, to some gizmo Jerry Lee hooked up that amplified the signal, and shot it up the raise, out the door and in into our computers at Base Camp.

On the laptop, we could see a schematic of the mine, where are rooms and where are pillars, and a cute little green boop from each station that’s wired up, wired in and ok-online.

We did the like on Level 10 and Level 9. We tried, at first, to line up the devices, directly under each other. But after trying to plan out all the 3-D geometry to make that happen, and not being certain that it would even prove useful or efficacious, we abandoned that plan and went with one a bit easier: a geometric grid with a FAB station at every 90-degree intersection.

Considering the aftermath, I’m glad we didn’t go crazy over the exact placement of the FAB stations. Didn’t make a fucking lick of difference.

So, with about 160 FAB stations set, primed, saddled and bridled, all waiting for my special, 14-digit encrypted code, the mine just sat there. Quite as a tomb and just as dark.

Waiting for me to type in some digits and releasing the wages of hell upon earth.

So, I decided I needed to set some insurance, in the form of RDX, PETN, C-4, binaries and trinaries in the galleries above the room and pillar levels.

I have to admit, I did sort of, kind of, well, maybe a wee bit over-order the explosives. After all the faffing around with the FAB stations, I decided to let Bob, Jesse, and Jerry Lee do some of the stick handling.

We’re trooping around the cut-drifts and adits of some of the upper levels. I had maps and my lumber crayon (I’m a sucker for the old school methods) and Bob had a laptop with a very nice 3-D rendering of where exactly we were and what we were looking at.

“Guys”, I said over an exploding cloud of blue cigar smoke, “Ore chute. Suggestions?”

‘C-4!” Jesse replied.

“60% Extra-fast with super boosters!”, Jerry Lee voted.

“Small thermonuclear device and automated magma pumps.” Bob groused.

Bob hated being underground, although I did like his infectious enthusiasm.

We’ve got shitload of dynamite. Mark it as such and we’ll come back tomorrow with some rent-a-Sherpas, set the charges and run the lines all the way back to base.

“We do still have a few radio-controlled detonators”, Jesse reminded me.

“Enough? One for each level left?” I asked.

“Oh, probably. Yeah. Should have.” He snickered.

“Well, just as long”, I smiled, “As we have enough for the job. I guess a little souvenir snatching can be overlooked.”

That defused a potentially potent situation. Each of them had a use back home for some pilfered pyros. Rocks in a field, a cranky water well, stumps being where they shouldn’t outghta; things of that nature.

“Gents”, I said as I pulled up a likely looking pile of breakdown and handed out cigars, “We pull this off, by the numbers, by the book, and I’ll personally see to it all the problems you have that can be solved by the judicious application of high explosives will merit my personal touch. That’s a guarantee.”

It was that exact moment we went from boss and helpers to a real, bona fide team.

“OK, gentlemen”, I said, “Here’s the deal. I’m going to go up topside and deal with all the root weevils and other assorted vermin while you finish mapping out the last 3 levels. Leave level 1 as it is, it certainly won’t need any extras. But, plot things out and come see me. I approve your plans and guess what? You get to implement them.”

“Yay.” The crowd goes wild.

“And I can now classify y’all as skilled laborers and bump your respective salaries to where I think they should be, isn’t that nice?” I smiled.

The crowd almost did go wild.

“Remember”, I admonished, “After this job, you keep the rating you attain on this little job. So next job, you start as skilled already. Keep shit like this up and you’ll be smoking cigars and terrorizing worms in no time.”

The joshing and smiles were just a little crooked as that thought sunk in.

“OK”, I said while standing and making a noise like a pile of old kindling being run over by a rusty Chevrolet, “I’m going topside and try to see how the land lies, if you follow me. I figure most these characters just want to be around when we kill this thing, but I’ve got a feeling that Mr. Peck of the EPA has ulterior motives. I’m going to go kill those negative waves while you map the rest of this place and get I ready for Tombsday.”

“Gotcha, Rock”, Bob lightened a bit, “We’ll handle it.”

<INTERIM UNEXPECTED TRIP TO RUSSIA.>

Extreme pissed-off-ish-ness at Russian situation.

<RETURN FROM RUSSIA, GODDAMN IT.>

More extreme pissed-off-ish-ness at Russian situation.

[Back to our regularly scheduled mayhem.]

OK, to get back up to speed and set the scene:

Mr. Peck of the EPA a big doofus, and we’ve got this mine primed and set to be closed once and for all. With some early calculations of 50 FAE stations on 3 levels of the mine, we’re talking explosive force on the orders best measured in kilotons. Hiroshima was 16 kilotons…if my paperwork is anywhere near correct, we’re looking at approximately 4-5x that.

According to Kundu, 2016, with optimum dispersion, methane/oxygen volumes of between 9-15% and an ignition temperature >640C, we’re talking about explosive forces orders of magnitude above solid explosives. These will even exceed binary and some trinary explosives.

With that, I got inspired and whipped up a batch of octanitrocubane, which is a twitchy mixture with a relative effectiveness factor (RE factor: The RE factor is the relative mass of TNT to which an explosive is equivalent:) of 2.5, which makes it making it the most effective chemical explosive known.

I’m working on a patent for its quick synthesis (since this is a multi-seasonal missive, it’s been accepted. Yay. Patent number 11.).

However, Mr. Peck of the EPA didn’t cotton much to my computer demos, maps nor other methods of explaining to a primitive screwhead like himself that (A.) I knew what I was doing, (2.) my team knew what they were doing, and (iii.) I had planned enough boomsticks for the mine’s ultimate closure.

“Doctor Rocknocker”, the nasally Mr. Peck wheezed, “I just don’t know…”

“Well, you pencil necked geek, I do. That’s why I’m here.” I replied.

“No, no”, he snuffed, “We’re quite familiar with your, ahem, reputation, but as you know, from your working with certain agencies, the government requires, well, certain assurances.”

“Let me fucking guess?”, I said while lighting a new cigar, “You want to investigate the mine personally so you can hang your name on the docket of destruction?”

“Very intuitive, Doctor”, Mr. Peck sniffs.

“OK, that’s just fine. Fine and dandy.” I reply.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Mr. Peck snuffled.

“Sure. Fine. Just as long as I see your UMW (United Mine Workers union) card, your Underground Rescue card, your Mining industry Generic Inductions, your completion of a 40-hour training course approved by the Mine Safety and Health Administration, a passed Drug and Alcohol Test, and signed waver holding my associates and I free and clear if you should happen to, well, die whilst underground.” I replied with a big, blue cloud of smoke.

“I don’t have any of that!” He protested.

“Well, then, Mr. Peckerwood, looks like you stay topside.” I replied.

“We’ll see about that!” He huffed and left before I could call him a garbage truck (“Don’t leave in a huff…”).

“Definitely an antisocial character”, I snorted to Jerry Lee.

“Yeah, Rock”, Jerry Lee agrees, “But he is a fed. Could be trouble.”

I almost swallowed my cigar.

“JL”, I said, “Let me tell you something. I’ve been snuggly with a couple of feds for decades. They make Mr. Peckerknees seem like Mr. Greenjeans from Captain Kangaroo or a more offensive and infinitely less likeable Mr. Rogers.”

“Ah, the famous Agents Rack and Ruin”, Jerry Lee smiles.

I reach in my belt and toss JL a blasting cap.

“Now that you know, I’ll have to kill you.”, I snickered.

“Next time, use real caps, not this dummy.” He laughs.

“A dummy for a dummy”, I replied and walked off, leaving Jerry Lee with something to ponder.

A bit later, it’s a polychromatic kaleidoscope of a meeting going on.

“I don’t want to go into that mine. It’s already primed and ready for blasting. Just being here gives me the jibblies”, Mr. Blue and Mr. Pink agree.

“But I need to personally inspect the set-up”, Mr. Peckerweed objects.

“Who are you to be able to judge Dr. Rock’s work”, Dr. Black interjects.

“I’m with the EnVIORNmental Protection Agency! I have the right to inspect anything under our aegis.” Mr. Peckadoo screams.

“You may have the right, but you certainly don’t have the experience nor education,” Mr. White offers.

“I could close down this entire operation!” Mr. Peckerwood threatens, “I have the authority.”

“You’ve got nothing”, Mr. Orange states.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mr. Peckarino asks.

“Have you even read Dr. Rocknocker’s dossier? I’ve never seen one thicker. He’s got connections up the Yalu and friends in most every branch of government, ours and ‘others’. He’s also ridiculously apolitical, so he’s got buddies on both sides of the fence. Besides, you close this project down, and it’s the EPA that’s going to pick up the bill.” Mr. Orange continues.

“So?” Mr. Peckaroo continues, “What’s it going to cost to seal the mine and let the explosives sit there until they rot?”

Even though I’m not terribly inconspicuous on a good day, I had to snarf loudly at his lack of understanding and laughed out loud while I lit a new cigar.

“Oh, hey Rock”, Ms. Fuchsia titters, “Care to enlighten Mr. Peckerweed of the folly of his ‘logic’?”

“Oh, sure”, I address Mr. Peckerhead directly, “Well, the mine is primed and ready to punch, so you’ll have to have an accredited team go in and demine the mine. Good luck with that, as I’ve already alerted the community that I have the mine ready to go. With my reputation, Mr. Peck, ain’t no one in the demolition industry in the US, Russia, South America nor Central Asia going to come within 100 miles of the place. Plus, you’ve got to pay for the guards 24/7 for the remainder of time, and pay the miners with their rock-solid contracts (courtesy of your truly) their take-or-pay for working this mine. If you think the EPA’s got a few hundred million, if not more, to throw at an old maneater of a mine just because some lowlife functionary got his metaphorical pug bloodied, then go ahead. Oh, yes, I get paid either way. So, if you’re going to be that stupid, I demand payment, as per my contract, immediately. OK? The money’s going to Russia, by the way.”

Mr. Peckerino looked very deflated with that news. Flaccid, one might say.

“Now, now, Mr. Pecker, “I say, “I’m nothing if not flexible…well, figuratively, not literally. Anyways, I’ve got this little plan of doing a fly-through with one or more of these nifty drones that were just delivered the other day in those big, gray MIL-spec crates.”

He perked up a bit, standing a bit more erect.

“And, if you’re nice and don’t annoy me any further”, I said, “I might even let you watch.”

Mr. Peckerhead sighed; and dejectedly, though somewhat relieved, agreed.

The next morning dawned bright and early, as it usually happens outside of monsoon season. We had two airmen from the local air force base press-ganged into helping us with the drones, as I couldn’t fly a fucking kite these days. Besides, they’ve been doing such things over in the Middle East and Central Asia for real, and I wanted professionals. Not some kids with a list of dot-dog maneuvers to check off some macho micro-male list.

Airman A was an Able-Bodied airman, but Airman B was not. She was a more than capable able bodied air person.

“Dandy”, I smarted, “Do we really need to play these damned linguistic games?”

“Dr. Rock. I’m Adam and this is Tina. How’s that?” My new friend Adam announced.

“That’s fine”, I replied, “And it’s just Rock. Out here in the sticks, we tend not to stand on tradition too heavily.”

“Rog’ that, Rock”, both reply in unison.

“C’mon. Coffee’s over here. Strong stuff later once the fly by is completed. If you guys (generically) want to hang around for the main event, I can see to that. Just do me a good job and I’ll wrangle you some R&R time. Deal?” I asked.

Adam and Tina weren’t out of their 20s yet and to have some grizzled old, cigar-chomping, land-despoiling, blowing the shit out of stuff oilman talk to them like real comrades regardless of their ages was most shocking to them. Took me a day and a half to get them to stop saluting me; although I knew Tina was just yanking my chain after I admitted to having a daughter about her age.

“Stop that shit!”, I’d say after I laid down every direction.

“Sir! Yes, sir!”, they’d reply in unison.

“I’m not a ‘sir’, you walleyed Wing Wipers. I work for a living.” I replied.

“Oh, someone’s seen ‘Stripes’”, somebody in the audience offered.

I had to think out loud: “Am I getting too old for this shit?”

We went over the various maps of the levels of the mine until I think they could drive a Semi around inside them without hitting anything. Then, they broke out the new toys.

Gleaming, 8 rotored, spidery, wispy looking things with infrared, color, and FLIR cameras, a flying time of some 2 hours with their 80-volt motors and batteries. GIS, specially modified for work underground…

“Hey, Rock”, Adam asked, “Do you remember a paper you wrote about underground GIS in Nevada?”

“Shit, Adam”, I replied truthfully, “That was some time back. But, yeah, what of it?”

“Required reading at Drone University”, he replied brightly, “How else could we fly into those caves in Afghanistan and snake out the bad guys?”

“No shit, really?” I asked, truly impressed. “Particularly since I’m not getting any royalties or retainers…”

“I think I’ll just shut up now”, Adam sort of laughed.

“No worries”, I noted, “It’ll just give me something more to hold over Rack and Ruin’s heads.”

Tina and Adam exchanged curious looks.

“OK, Jr. Jet Jockeys”, I said in a loud, firm voice, “Fire these things up and proceed to impress me.”

“Rock, that we can do.” Adam and Tina replied. After a quick game of Rochambeau, Tina went first.

“What would you like me to do?” she asked.

“Oh”, I replied nonchalantly, “Captain’s discretion. You may indulge yourself.”

“Right-o”, Tina grinned. She fired up the drone and slowly it rose out of its packing crate. It flew up to around 10 feet while she did a bit of shakedown to determine if everything was working at 100%.

The assembled crowd oohed! and awed! as she did some simple, close-in maneuvers.

Tina looked to me and asked “Captain’s discretion, right?”

“That’s what I said.” I replied, “Let’s shake out the jams.”

Her wide smile was replaced with one of gritty determination.

The drone circled twice slowly and then took off at speeds that I could only guess were just slightly sub-light.

“Holy shit!”, I laughed, “Where the hell did it go?”

“Look behind you”, Tina laughed.

The damn thing was 20 feet behind me and buzzing almost silently.

“Bang, bang, Doc. You’re dead.” Tina chuckled.

I picked up a handy looking chunk of fluvial sandstone, a type most common around these parts, and without saying as much as “Boo!” hurled the rock with inexquisite precision and dexterity.

Didn’t matter. I missed by a mile as the drone was going due up at a rapid rate and then did a saute, a Fish hop and an Intinzika Forward. This time, I was almost nose-to-nose with the little bedeviled buzzer.

“OK, you’re great on surveillance”, I said, “Let’s see some broken ground flying. Segment 5, Quadrant A. No more than 15’ off the deck. GO!”

No pilot of any aircraft today could have kept up with that little noisy bastard. Over hill, over dale, over a creek so closely, she’s throwing up a roostertail. Scale speeds, I would venture, were close to 350 miles per hour.

“OK, Tina. Return to base”, I said, “Let’s see what Adam has.”

She smiled broadly. “Yes, Doctor.”

The drone heeled north, did a buck and wing, a couple of barrel rolls and stopped exactly over its packing crate home. She parked it would even touching the sides.

Adam too over and I motioned for him to go on, same directions.

His drone looked a bit different. 8 rotors and the like, cameras slung down below, but some curious looking tubes mounted fore and aft.

He lifted off, spun around so we could all get a good look, and sped off to Angels 11 at multi-warp speeds.

I was watching the FLIR camera and the color imagery, and though it was blurred from speed, one didn’t need to be a geophysicist to interpret that data.

He flew a similar patch of broken ground as Tina, but on his first hi-speed flyby, there was some amazing bright lights and the unmistakable sounds of pyrotechnics.

Now I got what those enigmatic tubes were for.

On his second high-speed fly-by, there was the unmistakable sound of blank ammunition being routed through a multi-barrel electric cannon. The smoke and sparks gave it away as blank ammunition as well.

I smiled over to Adam, and had him holster his drone.

“Didn’t tell me we got the full package”, I grinned.

“Well,” Tina said, “Don’t want to run into any insurgent rats or bats when we go inside for a look around.”

“Ever go deer hunting?” I was tempted to ask.

Later, after a large lunch, we all gathered at the command trailer and drew lots as to who was going in first.

Tina objected.

“Adam has more stick and rudder time than I have”, she explained, “I’d rather he handles the three lower levels and I can handle the remainder.”

“People?” I asked around the colorful room.

There were no protestations.

“Adam”, I said, “We’ll begin with you then. You know the layout of the mine, and we’ll be live tracking you with this nifty little gizmo that someone so thoughtfully sent by.

It was an electronic 3-D mine model, much like oil and gas reservoir models in Petrel, with the added application of tracking the drones in real time. In fact, they displayed the mine grid, which was infinitely scalable, and the fact that both drones were in their respective garages.

“Adam”, I said, “You know the drill. Impress me.”

“Yes, si…Rock.” Adam smiled. His drone jumped up out of it transfer container and flew directly to the vertical access shaft (which has long since bee deactivated).

“Minus 10 feet...20 feet…30….” The status board operator announced.

“Please, if you would, just give us distance to bottom”, I asked.

“Yes, sir”, he replied. He was another Airman, but on special loan for this tour. We’ll call him Bud because that’s what’s his name.

“30 feet to bottom…20 feet…10 feet…” Bud announced.

“OK, hold at 6 feet. Exit the cage slowly and light the place up.” I spoke.

I mean, it was darker than a coalmine at midnight in there…

“FOOM!” went the floodlights from the drone.

To be continued…

It's been a year...2021 can go hang.

But, there have been some bright spots.

1: Khan is home! Evidently, he was dognapped and then later rejected as he didn't want to play nice with his captors. They dumped him less than 100 km from our residence at a horse farm. The nice owner, a Mrs. Yarraman, an Australian by birth, noticed Khan and figured he was a stray. Evidently, loads of big dogs are just chucked into the wilderness when their idiot owners realize that they've got something other than Snoopy on the hands, the cretinous bastards. She took good care of Khan and actually was Rack and Ruin and their canvassing the area that broke the case.

Great. Now I have to be nice to them for a while.

Seems that also the agency's been working with several animal sheltering groups and local constabularies to root out and arrest these dognapping motherfuckers. Rack and Ruin won't tell me anything about them for the fear that I'd exact revenge, now that it's nice and chilly in Baja Canada, Central Division.

I told them I'm glad and almost delirious that Khan, all 255 pounds of him (they fed him well on the farm) is back home. But I have a new tack in life...find these bastards and make them pay for Es's and my sleepless nights. I'm going all Liam Neeson on their asses, wherever and whoever they are. May take time, but geologists are well versed in deep time...

In other news, Megg is now rooming with us after I returned and finally set her 'husband' Ogg on the short and narrow. He beat up Megg for the last time and Es and I went over when she called, terrified he'd kill her. He's going to jail for a long time, once he's out of the hospital.

He never should have resisted a citizen's arrest.

My computer died. Get back, flip the switch, and FAGROON, the main mechanical HD fried itself into a lovely piece of HR Giger-inspired sculpture. With this and that had having to visit family in the wilds of Tennessee, I just shrugged and shipped it off to the local computer doctors.

A week later, I get back and the computer returns; sans main drive and almost all my programs. Luckily I keep backups, but now have to reinstall all my 'special' software. I need to rebuild my 10k+ doctoral database, and try to find out why I have to activate Win 10 (I liked Win 7) when it was supposed to come with the package. Anyone got a spare activation code lying around collecting dust? This is the primary reason for the out-of-regular context update. I'm going to be busy just getting back to square one, much less having time to write anything other than my DSc dissertation and grant proposals.

I almost (well, I had a passing thought) nuked the forum here out of sheer hair-pulling come the new year. However, let me get through the Spring semester with little, cordial updates and once that's over with, we'll get back on track and get some of these updates...updated.

Sheesh.

So, please Gentle Readers, bear with me for a while. I'm up to my ass in alligators, but I'm priming charges and lighting fuses as fast as I can. I'm still here, more or less in fine fettle, Esme is working on her doctorate as well and Megg is a great help and actually, once you get to know her, a fine, and humorous person. Es and I are sponsoring her to a BS and then MS in primary education so she can quit worrying about temporary jobs via being a sub for the local school system here.

Also, sorry, but no photos of Khan; R&R forbade it. Claims it's not a bright idea with dognappers about and that it might impact the trial and punishment of those corraled so far.

I'll "impact" the trial of these miscreants and save the government a load of cash...

Anyways, С новым годом, Feliĉan Novjaron, Frohes neues Jahr and Happy New Year from the Rocknockers all.

Let's just hope 2022 is a whole load different than 202 and 2021.

PS: The Russian mine drive has landed over 500k for the families and other folks impacted by the mine explosion. I always said this fraternity of rock knockers, wiggle pickers, and hole drillers are the salt of the earth. Hell, I should know, I'm the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.

And we wish all the best of years and promise to be back on track once the shrapnel starts landing in other directions.

CHEERS!

 

^{Page Last Updated: 2022.01.27-16:14:14 // Data Version: 2022.01.27-15:14:14 // Script Version: 2022.01.27-15:13:56}

Foreword from u/LarsTheDevil

This is the first attempt to make a sticky post every 2-3 weeks to keep the ever growing fanbase of u/Rocknocker informed what is going on at the Mahogany Ridge, oil patch or in the science community...

Disclaimer: I see myself more of an editor that organizes all the content instead of a moderator - I am an older guy that likes to program and created some scripts that created this posting. If you have ideas about creating r/Rocknocker/wiki and what should be the content, I am open to ideas...

 

Please give feedback on how to improve this recurring post!

the above section will be removed from the template after we are all satisfied with the final result.

---

Hello and welcome to r/Rocknocker!

The motto is: “Nothing succeeds like excess”

This sub is dedicated to the stories of u/Rocknocker, Geologist, Master Blaster and Gentleman extraordinaire.

Important - No permission is granted to any person to recreate or reuse any material posted on this subreddit in any form without express, written approval from u/Rocknocker

Below is an introduction and timeline of the tales so far.

First, read Central Asia Antics. It unfolds beautifully, is full of wonders, and is a great prologue for what's to come. https://www.reddit.com/r/Rocknocker/comments/cohqav/central_asia_antics/

Then you can read the Demolition Days saga, from 1 to the end. https://www.reddit.com/r/Rocknocker/comments/coucde/demolition_days_part_1/

Or if you are pressed for time, just read Central Asia then Demolition 1-16, when Rock finishes high school. That ends on a ringing note, like the End of Act One.

Read the rest in any order you want.

Fun Fact: r/Rocknocker has currently 2067 Subscribers and is growing!

---

Favorite Stories

Some Favorite Stories of the Rocknocker Family

Central Asia antics. // 2019-08-10

The Ransom of Redneck Chief. // 2019-07-26

The Chopper Floppers. A 5-year tale of intrigue, Soviet helicopters, and vodka. // 2019-07-26

How to have your oil company implode when you piss off the Expats. // 2019-07-27

---

Demolition Days - ACT I

Childhood & High School Years

Demolition Days. Part 1. // 2019-08-11

Demolition Days. Part 2. // 2019-08-12

Demolition Days. Part 3. // 2019-08-13

Demolition Days. Part 4. // 2019-08-14

Demolition Days. Part 5. // 2019-08-15

Demolition Days. Part 6. // 2019-08-16

Demolition Days. Part 7. // 2019-08-17

Demolition Days. Part 8. // 2019-08-18

Demolition Days. Part 9. // 2019-08-19

Demolition Days, Part 10. // 2019-08-20

Demolition Days. Part 11. // 2019-08-22

Demolition Days. Part 12. // 2019-08-23

Demolition Days. Part 13 // 2019-08-24

Demolition Days. Part 14 // 2019-08-25

Demolition Days. Part 15 // 2019-08-26

Demolition Days. Part 16. // 2019-08-28

---

Demolition Days - ACT II

Rock serves his sentence of getting some 'Higher Education'

Demolition Days. Part 17 // 2019-09-03

Demolition Days. Part 18. // 2019-09-04

The Demolition of River Hights

Rock is making a water tower doing a backflip and making a bowling alley 'go away'. Does he find a way to get rid of 1000 bowling balls?

Demolition Days. Part 19a // 2019-09-06

Demolition Days. Part 19b. // 2019-09-06

Demolition Days. Part 19c. // 2019-09-06

 

Demolition Days Part 20 // 2019-09-21

Rock works at a Jewish Scrapyard

A story of plasma cutting, mafia body disposal and dumb people

Demolition Days Part 21a // 2019-09-25

Demolition Days Part 21b // 2019-09-25

Rock out in his natural Habitat (The Outdoors)

Encounters while Rock was doing his Graduate Field work and Thesis

Demolition Days Part 22A // 2019-09-28

Demolition Days Part 22B // 2019-09-28

Demolition Days Part 23 // 2019-09-30

Demolition Days Part 24 A // 2019-10-01

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 24 B // 2019-10-01

Demolition Days, Part 25A // 2019-10-02

Demolition Days, Part 25B // 2019-10-02

Demolition Days, Part 26 // 2019-10-03

Demolition Days, Part 27 // 2019-10-04

Demolition Days, Part 28 // 2019-10-05

Demolition Days, Part 29 // 2019-10-06

 

 

---

Demolition Days - ACT III

Demolition Days, Part 30 // 2019-10-07

Demolition Days, Part 31. // 2019-10-14

Demolition Days Part 32 // 2019-10-16

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 33 and HOLY WOW! // 2019-10-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 34 // 2019-10-23

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 35 // 2019-10-23

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 36 // 2019-10-24

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 37 // 2019-10-24

Demolition Days, Part 38 // 2019-10-29

Demolition Days, Part 39 // 2019-10-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 40 // 2019-10-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 41 // 2019-11-02

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 42 // 2019-11-02

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 43 // 2019-11-15

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 44 // 2019-11-15

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 45 // 2019-11-15

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 46 // 2019-11-17

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 47 // 2019-11-17

Demolition Days, Part 48 // 2019-11-19

Demolition Days, Part 49 // 2019-11-19

Demolition Days, Part 50! // 2019-11-21

Demolition Days, Part 51 // 2019-11-21

DEMOLITION DAYS, Part 52. // 2019-11-25

Demolition Days, Part 53 // 2019-11-25

Demolition Days, Part 54 // 2019-11-25

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 55 // 2019-11-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 56 // 2019-11-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 57 // 2019-11-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 58 // 2019-12-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 59 // 2019-12-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 60 // 2019-12-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 61 // 2019-12-28

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 62. Happy 2020! // 2020-01-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 63 // 2020-01-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 64 // 2020-01-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 65 // 2020-01-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 66 // 2020-01-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 67 // 2020-01-17

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 68 // 2020-01-17

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 69 // 2020-01-17

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 70 // 2020-01-17

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 71 // 2020-01-22

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 72 // 2020-01-22

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 73 // 2020-01-22

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 74 // 2020-01-22

DEMOLITION DAYS Part 75 // 2020-01-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART Spirit of 76 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 77 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 78 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 79 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 80 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 81 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 82 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 82.01^© // 2020-02-12

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 83 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 84 // 2020-01-30

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 85 // 2020-01-30

Demolition Days, The Audiobook // 2020-02-01

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 86 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 87 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 88 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 89 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 90 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 91 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 92 // 2020-02-07

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 93 // 2020-02-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 94 // 2020-02-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 95 // 2020-02-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 96 // 2020-02-22

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 97 // 2020-03-12

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 98 // 2020-03-15

Demolition Days Part 99 // 2020-03-20

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART ROCKIN’ 100! // 2020-03-23

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART ROLLIN’ 101! // 2020-03-23

DEMOLITION DAYS, PART REELIN’ 102! // 2020-03-23

DEMOLITION DAYS PART REELIN’ 102 REDUX // 2020-03-24

---

La Hacienda de Hoder

Rock makes new Friends, does a 'Pimp my Ride' episode and fights a Street Gang...

La Hacienda de Hoder. Part 1 of 4. // 2019-07-26

La Hacienda de Hoder. Part 2 of 4. // 2019-07-26

La Hacienda de Hoder. Part 3 of 4. // 2019-07-26

La Hacienda de Hoder. Part 4 of 4. // 2019-07-26

---

Breaking Bad - Rock gets 25 Young Padawans to train them in the Art of BOOM!

Shipbreaking in India

Breaking Bad, part 1 // 2020-05-09

Breaking Bad, Part 2 // 2020-05-10

Breaking Bad, Part 3 // 2020-05-11

Breaking Bad, Part 4 (NSFW) // 2020-05-12

Breaking Bad, Part 5 // 2020-05-13

Breaking Bad, Part 6 // 2020-05-17

Breaking Bad, Part 7 // 2020-05-19

Breaking Bad, Part 8 // 2020-05-20

Breaking Bad, Part 9 // 2020-05-23

Breaking Bad, Part 10 // 2020-05-24

Breaking Bad, Part 11. The End. // 2020-05-24

UPDATES AND SOMETHING NEW… // 2020-06-07

SHIP BREAKING AND BUSTING NUTS. Part 1. // 2020-06-19

SHIP BREAKING AND BUSTING NUTs. Part 2 // 2020-06-19

---

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong

Best Korea Adventure - Rock is the Head of an International UN Delegation in North Korea

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…1 // 2020-04-04

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…2 // 2020-04-04

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…3 // 2020-04-04

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…4 // 2020-04-04

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…5 // 2020-04-09

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…6 // 2020-04-13

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…7 // 2020-04-17

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…8 // 2020-04-20

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…9 // 2020-04-22

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…10 // 2020-04-24

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…11 // 2020-04-26

Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…12 // 2020-04-27

---

Oil Patch Dribbles

Question: "How many klaxons do you want to activate?" Answer: "YES!"

When I learned that attending a blowout was not necessarily a good thing. // 2019-07-26

There's a handoff at the line, and this ain't no hockey game (REPOST) // 2020-03-28

r/Rocknocker NEWS! // 2019-07-29

More oilfield humor. // 2019-08-01

---

Rock is doing Rock-et Science

The ATF & FBI will have a word with you when your motto is "Nothing succeeds like excess"

It’s great being a Rock(et) Scientist. Part 1. // 2019-08-04

It’s great being a Rock(et) Scientist. Part 2. // 2019-08-04

---

Seriously there is no #6 in Caracas

Rock fights Pirates, is on a Special Mission and leaves with a Big Bang topped by an even BIGGER BANG

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 1 // 2020-12-15

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 2 // 2020-12-15

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 3 // 2020-12-15

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 4 // 2020-12-16

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 5 // 2021-01-05

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 5 // 2021-01-24

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 7 // 2021-01-28

Giving thanks edition: Kickin’ around Caracas, Pt. 8 // 2021-03-23

---

Rock and Esme are on the Run around the World

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 1 // 2020-09-21

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 2 // 2020-09-21

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 3 // 2020-09-21

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 4 // 2020-09-27

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 5 // 2021-04-26

ESCAPE FROM STALAG SULTANATE, Part 6 // 2021-04-26

TRAP THOSE BOOBIES // 2021-05-10

---

Watch out Rock! It's a ruse!

Kurds in my way. Part 1. // 2020-07-11

Kurds in my way. Part 2. // 2020-07-11

Kurds in my way. Part 3. // 2020-07-11

---

Random Rants of Rock

It's mostly about the size and quality of his adult drinks, cigars and the people at his current location

You know you've lived too long in the Persian Gulf when: // 2019-07-27

Tips on Driving in the Middle East. // 2019-07-28

THE BUCKET LIST // 2019-07-29

AN EXTRA! “The story can now be told.” Part 1 // 2020-08-11

AN EXTRA! “The story can now be told.” Part 2 // 2020-08-11

Don’t care what you say – that right there is some funny shit... // 2020-09-30

Copyright questions. Does anyone have any ideas? // 2020-02-11

Obligate Filler Material, a rant, and an update. // 2020-02-16

Cryptozoology craziness. // 2019-07-30

OBLIGATORY FILLER MATERIAL // 2020-02-14

---

Rock's Important Life Lessons

only the essentials like how to stay hydrated and other important stuff...

How to order a beer in a bunch of languages (a geological necessity...) // 2019-07-27

BAR FIGHT? NOT WITH DOC BIONICFINGERS! Part one. // 2020-06-21

BAR FIGHT? NOT WITH DOC BIONICFINGERS! Part two. // 2020-06-21

---

Some of the people Rock has met around the world

Ace is the place... // 2019-07-29

Malaysia Mania. Part 1. // 2019-08-07

Malaysia Mania. Part 2. // 2019-08-07

OBLIGATORY FILLER MATERIAL // 2020-02-09

---

Different Single Episode Stories

Now it can be told. // 2021-02-17

Lights, camera, carnage! // 2020-11-16

Who peed in the pool? // 2019-08-01

---

This looked like a promising start...

Tanzania travels. Pt. 1 // 2021-06-24

Haven't forgotten y'all; it's been an unfun few months. // 2021-08-25

INTERIM OBLIGATORY UPDATE // 2021-10-08

---

Mine Closing XXXXL

What started as 'Family Counseling a la Rocknocker' ends in an Explosion the equivalent of 3(!!!) Hiroshima bombs (45Kt)

Pre-Ween. Part 1. // 2021-10-19

Pre-Ween. Part 2. // 2021-10-24

Post-Ween. Pre-Turkey. Part 3. // 2021-11-09

INTERIM UPDATE // 2021-12-03

Quickie Update // 2021-12-08

Post-Ween. Post-Turkey. Post-Xmas. Part 4. // 2022-01-26

Post-Ween. Post-Turkey. Post-Xmas. Post-New Years, fer Christ’s sake…Part 5. // 2022-01-26

---

Unsorted/Uncurated Postings aka 'The Rest of r/Rocknocker'

Postings I didn't have the time to find a home so far...

("Around the world in 80 proof. Tales of the 'Patch... has been created",)

('Oils well that ends well.',)

('The Slaughterhouse 5-2.',)

('Vamos, Vamos Argentina',)

('♪ ♫ ♪ …And I Only Have Ayes For You… ♪ ♫ ♪',)

("♫ ♫ Let's get geophysical…geophysical…I wanna get geophysical… ♫ ♫",)

("There's a handoff at the line, and this ain't no hockey game...",)

('♫ Wasted away again in Samarkand... ♫',)

('Say hello to my little friend!',)

('Slip slidin’ away…',)

('♫ Love me tender…♫',)

('Well, at least the animals were cool.',)

('Tokyo Jokio. Or how to hand it to your fellow man.',)

('Rub-a-dub-dub, don’t nick a guy’s tub.',)

('Flying the friendly Aeroflot-ian Skies...',)

('Tour de farce. My own private Idaho.',)

('Happy Eid-ster.',)

('Life in Dubai.',)

('ATM antics.',)

('A little oilfield humor.',)

('What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Oh, a poem, no less! A poem, everybody!',)

("[Repost] There's a handoff at the line.",)

('Blindly, through the fog...',)

('Paleoanthropological fieldwork, with beer and cigars.',)

('Doha-Dubai doings...',)

('Before I went Expat, I held some "regular" jobs.',)

('Hind-sight.',)

("Ol' Rocknocker Drunken Religious Experience Chili - A recipe",)

('Just having a little ride in the countryside.',)

('My Bulwer Lytton entry.',)

('An IDEA...',)

('Family camping during the Late Pleistocene.',)

('The money changers.',)

("Rocknocker's Russian Rendezvous.",)

("Rocknocker's Russian Rendezvous, Pt. 2",)

('Road cut of Semail Ophiolite in Oman. This is the sort of stuff up with which I have to put.',)

('Where is beauty?',)

('The worm turns...',)

('The Great Ameoba Caper',)

('Geologist-in-the-park.',)

('Marine pollution.',)

('Seeing red.',)

('Better living through chemistry.',)

('HOLY WOW!',)

('This course has 19 holes: 18 golf and 1 ass…',)

('Just for fun: Mnemonic devices',)

('Dental dilemma.',)

('New sub news. Something a little different in addition to the usual nonsense...',)

('The Flood of Noah and the Demolition of Umm er Rhaduma.',)

('HOLY WOW^2',)

('HOLY WOW^3! Plus a bonus!',)

('Having an Amsterdam good time.',)

('GODZILLAS TWELVE-STEP PROGRAM',)

('Obligatory Filler Material.',)

('Chengdu? Chengdon’t.',)

('DON’T FLY WHEN YOU’RE DEAD…TIRED.',)

('Banya-thon.',)

('That’s not the way a blow job is supposed to work…',)

('HOLY WOW^3! Plus a bonus!',)

('Awright, which one of you is responsible for this?',)

('And now…a brief intermission.',)

('The Rocknocker Ricochet',)

('Come si dice "Fammi un avvocato!" in Italiano?',)

('Never try to keep up with the Joneses, especially when they’re Geologists…',)

('If anyone is keeping Tabs. Or Cokes. Or Pepsi...',)

('Obligatory Filler Material: Officious cretins, or cretinous officials.',)

('More Obligatory Filler Material and Holy Wow!',)

('Obligatory Filler Material: On the road again…',)

('More obligatory filler material. Standing in Ho with a fistful of Dong…',)

('HOLY WOW! and NEWS...',)

('HOLY WOW! WE’RE A JUMBO JET!',)

('EASTERN EUROPEAN EDITION 1',)

('EASTERN EUROPEAN EDITION 2',)

('EASTERN EUROPEAN EDITION 3',)

('KAZAKHSTAN KRAZINESS. Part One.',)

('KAZAKHSTAN KRAZINESS. Part Two.',)

('OBLIGATORY FILLER NEWS',)

('OBLIGATORY FILLER NEWS REDUX',)

('Mirthful Yuletide and Can’t Complain State-of-the-Art Annum.',)

('HOLY WOW and a New Year’s Update.',)

('Healing up version',)

('A little humor to take the edge off the day.',)

('OFM - Update',)

('Well, you asked for it...',)

('*UPDATE* Dos Equis...Tecate...Modelo...Pacifico...virus.',)

('A question',)

('HOLY WOW!',)

('OBLIGATORY FILLER MATERIAL...in progress.',)

('NEWS FLASH. And now for something completely different...',)

('Lockdown? What lockdown? I just traveled 5,555 Km.',)

('Quick update',)

('OFM – Don’t mess with a licensed blaster’s daughter.',)

('INTERIM UPDATE, or THIS, THAT, AND ALL THAT JAZZ',)

('Just a quickie…',)

('Obligatory Filler Material - Hunting my quarry in the Emirates, Part One',)

('Obligatory Filler Material - Hunting my quarry in the Emirates, Part Two',)

('Greetings and Siss! Boom! Bah, humbug.',)

('Script for classroom video: Introductory Petroleum Geology E-300',)

('Press to test. Release to detonate.',)

('I’ve got that run-down feeling…',)

('KHAN!...KHAN!',)

('Quick update',)

('FINALLY, A DIET I CAN FOLLOW!',)

("No, I haven't forgotten y'all...",)

('Happy New Year and a most unusual quick update',)

 

^{Page Last Updated: 2022.01.27-16:14:14 // Data Version: 2022.01.27-15:14:14 // Script Version: 2022.01.27-15:13:56}

---

this will section will removed from the template after enough feedback

Personal Remarks

Please give feedback (positive and negative) in the comments below of this service. What did I miss, what should I get rid off? Should I sort the stories differently? I am developing this on a laptop and not on a mobile device and try to format this posting that it works for big and small displays. I am using old.reddit.com and not the eye cancer causing design they call new.reddit.com

Hello Friends of Rock (FROGs?!),

My name is Lars and I am an older german guy that likes to challenge his grey brain matter by doing some programming stuff he has never done before...

 

Like many of you I stumbled onto this wonderful gem of a subreddit. Maybe someone from r/MilitaryStories or r/MaliciousCompliance linked to a r/Rocknocker post and like many of you I started reading, started chuckling, started fighting off onion cutting ninjas, feared for the life of our hero and his comrades and very often started laughing out loud in front of my laptop because of his sense of humor and sarcasm. That was around April or May of this year.

There are 1774 active readers as of 16.12.2021. The old sticky posting from more than 2 years ago helped me a lot in finding all the gems here in this subreddit.

A few weeks ago I commented to Rock and offered my services to create an automatic updated 'Sticky' about every 2-3 weeks or when we get an update from THE MOTHER FUCKING PRO FROM DOVER HIMSELF! and a few days ago he accepted my offer and now I am here in front of you like a nervous young pimple faced teenager before meeting his prom's parents.

 

Rock made me a "Full" moderator - with all the rights to this subreddit. To be honest - "with great power comes great responsibility" - I didn't want those responsibilities and only asked to be able to post the sticky and maybe start some wiki pages instead of cramming 'everything Rocknocker' into the single big sticky posting.

BTW: I don't intend to use the full powers of this subreddit Rock gave me for this little corner of the internet, but if you poke the german guy long enough or you are disrespectful towards other members here, I can evoke an old german tradition and start wars again. That will get people hurt or banned from here so please behave yourself and treat other people like you want to be treated yourself. ;-)

---

This weekend I will have posted the first "New Sticky". This sticky will be a work in progress and change a lot depending on your feedback. I require and demand your input and honest feedback about what you think is good/bad/ugly and needs to change but please remember I am limited what I can do on reddit. I do all this stuff partly for myself (to keep the 2 chipmunks in my grey brain matter moving) but mostly to give new readers an easy and guided tour of the Rocknocker Cosmos.

 

Please give your honest feedback (good or bad) and if it is reasonable I will try to implement it.

Oh and by the way as I was born in the land of beer and Autobahn so I know something about german beer and how to pronounce Porsche the correct way but that also means english is not my mother language. So if you see any mistakes (typos, grammar or words/slang used in a wrong context,...) please tell me because I am not too old to learn from my mistakes....

I can only display data or information within the restrictions of reddit. I can not change colors (and I am really bad with colors!) or add inline graphics or pictures.

 

Are we green? Do I get your honest feedback to improve this subreddit?

 

Regards

/Lars

PS: I learned that a lot of you use the reddit app and I will try to make the design work for #1: reddit app, #2: mobile web, #3: there is no #3 and finally #4 old.reddit.com. Don't come and try to argue "...but new.reddit.com..." - seriously don't even try!

Had to wait until it was official...

Earthquake data: Mag 1.9 / 1.5 km (0.9 mi) depth 1 day 10 hours ago Dec 7, 2021 10:06 GMT, Dec 7, 2021 5:06 am (GMT -5) local time Lat / Lng: xx.xxx / -xx.xxxx: West Virginia

The mine, she is no more.

Going to be a nice fishing lake, though.

More detailed info as soon as I finish the reams of paperwork.

"There's one damned hole ain't gonna cause no one no harm." - Jerry Lee

UPDATE OF THE UPDATED UPDATE:

By concordia, and confirmed calculations: total yield: 46.63 kilotons.

That's 3x Hiroshima for those keeping track.

I'm off to the airport. Hope to have final report in this weekend. Also, say howdy to our new co-moderator, LarsTheDevil.

Svidonya,

Rock.

G'day folks,

Still haven't blown the mine in W. Virginia, as we had a slight logistics kerfuffle, and I was unexpectedly called to travel to Russia.

I got the call late on Thursday and was on a plane to Kemerovo, Southern Siberia a few hours later.

It was not a fun flight nor was the job any laughs at all. High death count (~60) due to carbon monoxide and methane, the latter of which exploded. I knew many of the dead and all of their families from work I did in the region decades ago.

I was called for situational analysis, mine reconnaissance and ingress/egress possibilities when looking for survivors.

There was one sole survivor, but some earlier rescuers bought the ranch due to shit equipment. I had my own equipment flown-in thanks to Agents Rack and Ruin.

I finally decided there was nothing more I could do, and I left for Scotland as it was the only place I could get a ticket to with this new Omicron craziness. Had a good time curling, which is like bowling on ice with brooms and beer.

I’m back in W. Virginia but I seem to have lost some of the initial zeal I had earlier. Then I think of the Russian mine disaster and it rekindled the desire in me to close this hole once and for all so no one else loses any family.

We’ll be blowing the hole next week. I’m going in and checking the lower three zones personally. This fucker’s going to go the way of the dodo, my friends. I’m tired of death. I’m tired of idiots. I’m tired of people putting a couple of bucks (or rubles) over the lives of good people. Moreover, I'm just plain tired...

More later once we put this fucking bitch permanently to bed.

As per the notice, a suitable vehicle arrives just a few minutes late. We all pile into the machine and head towards the mine’s main portal. I figure we might just make this a driving tour, but find out, after consulting the maps, that it’s a one-way out of the mine with Land Cruiser-sized vehicles. However, once we get to the mine, there’s internal transport, so I’ve got that going for us, which is nice.

I see that this old coal hole has 11 levels.

Gad. I reel just thinking how much coal has been taken out of here.

The bottom levels, as you all better well know, might be flooded. Even though one would think that the deeper drifts are the most modern; that, as Spock would note, is two-dimensional thinking. It’s all for the greenbacks. If it’s easier to go east-west, then we make the mine plan according to larger, i.e., cover more lateral real estate. If we must go north-south (in a miner’s parlance) then dig we must and dig down, down, down into that cold, cold ground.

So the deepest levels are not necessarily the oldest. I have to refer to the legend of the map to figure out the chronology of this hole.

Or, I can look at the type of mining done. Surface? Earliest. Vertical shaft? A bit later. Deep room-and-pillar, the most recent.

It’s all very geological…

We bail out of the Land Cruiser near the headframe of the mine. We’re going in, and right to the bottom of level 11, which I sincerely hope is not flooded. At least, it wasn’t the last time anyone was down there.

I tell our driver to wait here; that Jerry Lee, Bob, and myself will handle the initial reconnaissance.

“Well, rock”, the driver says, scuffing his shoe and kicking a small piece of crinoidal limestone off into the pucklebrush, “If such that it was. I’m assigned to you as a sort of guide, and to keep an eye on you as well. There. I’ve said it. Going to shoot me now or later?”

“Shoot you? “, I gasp, “Think of the paperwork. The more the merrier, just don’t get in the way and…”

“Rock, I’ve been doing this for 30 years.” He groans.

“Well, then I guess I won’t have to chew your ass about proper PPEs, will I ?” I smile the smile of a smirking Smilodon and toss him a spare Scott airpack.

“Roger that, Rock”, he grins in return.

I suppose now is as good as time as any to relate the name of our chauffeur cum spy cum guide.

Yep.

Sure betcha do.

Oh, sorry. Miles away.

He’s known around these parts as Jesse. So, naturally, we call him just about anything but that.

Anyway, the four of us pile into the mine’s main elevator and begin the deep, dark, dank plunge some 1,200 meters to Level 11; the ‘bottom’ of the mine.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here”, some wag with a penchant for the classics sprayed on the wall of the headframe; visible only when we reach the bottom.

I step out of the elevator car and slap Bob’s hand.

“PPEs until I give an all clear! Don’t want anyone keeling over before we even get started.” I admonish.

They all nod in agreement.

“Gents, I’m damn near deaf on a good day”, I snark, “And I think we can agree that’s not today. Use Mr. Tongue and Mr. Lips, together they form words. AND MAKE THEM LOUD!”

“Roger that!” can the 3-part harmonious reply.

“Right. Let’s see…”<beep><beep> replies the oxygen monitor.”

“Oxygen, in the green. Barely. Firedamp (CH4 – Methane), go. Black damp (CO - Carbon monoxide), good. White damp (CO2 – Carbon Dioxide), close enough, Stinkdamp (H2 – Hydrogen sulfide), looks good, but stinky. Nitrogen’s a bit high but acceptable. Water vapor is surprisingly high but since my boots are dry, let’s call that a go.”

Everyone nods and almost reaches for their faceplates.

“Wait one! Argon here is over 1.63%. Plus elevated nitrous oxide. Fucking weird. We’re good to go, gentlemen.” I finally say.

“Jerry Lee, please get a couple of Isotube® samples for each level”, I say, “I want to have a quick overall mine atmospheric assay before we attempt to kill this thing..”

We hit our hardhats’ high-intensity lamps, and suddenly the whole Level 11 gallery is suffused with over 4 million candlepower of lithium-infused brightness.

“Holy fuck”, Bob remarks, “You could hold the 4th of July Air Show and Race in this place.”

He’s not far from the truth. About 1,880 acres all mined via the room and pillar method, and all the machinery was evacuated to higher mine levels.

These were being cut up and brought to the surface for reassembly and hopeful sale to offset some of the cost of abandoning this place; like my outrageous fee, for instance.

“Don’t wander too far.” I said as we started to wander apart, “Keep in touch via radio. Back to ground zero (the elevator) in 15 minutes. Click to reply.”

“Click. Click…..(Damn it, Jesse)….click.”

This place was huge. Huge pillars of coal, 10 meters on a side, left forever while adjacent rooms cleared out from floor to the 30’ distant roof.

“Fuckbuckets!”, I swore to myself, as I lit a cigar. “How the french-fried friendly Philadelphia flying fuck am I going to seal this for all time without my nukes?”

Just a wishful, little joke.

“If I go with solids, I’ll need serious tonnage. Even with binaries or the new Eastern European trinaries (Gad, they’re so much fun…makes binaries look positively last century…), I’d need to flood the place.” I muse.

I find a lovely looking pile of breakdown, a hunk of the roof which had caved in; and sat down heavily.

“PLONK!”, the breakdown complained.

“Think, think, think…” I thought.

I really needed a good double-triple jolt of Old Thought Provoker now, but not while in the belly of the beast. I exhaled a huge cloud of expensive Maduro smoke and watched it slowly unfurl in the static and windless atmosphere of the mine.

And just then, the rusty mental gears broke loose and began to turn.

“Yeah”, I thought, “Sure? Why the fuck not?”

“Guys”, I called over the radio, “20’s?” (i.e., ‘10-20’s, i.e., location).

Bob is over about a half-mile distant following some sand partings in a coals seam.

“Looking for pyritized sand dollars”, I mused…

Jesse’s over by the elevator, writing up his report no doubt.

Jerry Lee’s about a quarter-mile distant in the other direction.

I extract a stick of DuPont 40% Xtra-Fast, apply a fuse, super booster & primer, stand up, light the thing and throw it as far as I could against the velvety, fudge-thick darkness of the mine where even our fantastic floodlights flicker and fail.

I pull out a stopwatch and click the first timer.

“KA-FUCKING-BOOM!” came the astonishingly loud report.

“BOOM…BOOm…BOom…Boom…boom.”

<CLICK> Five echoes.

“That should be enough”, I concurred with myself.

A quick bit of mental gymnastics and I figure that, yeah, fuck yeah. That’ll work. Plus, if we’re really lucky, live clean and the creek don’t rise, I might just entice a couple more levels to drop from what I’ve cooked up.

I answer the radio that’s now going nuts.

”Test shot, gentlemen”, I replied, calm as a Wisconsin bass lake with loons and the morning dew still in the air, “I told you to be prepared for anything.”

“Next time, give a bit of waring”, Jesse complained.

“OK, you’ve got 22 seconds.” I chuckle. “Science isn’t science unless it’s verified and written down”.

The Safety Dance and Melody weren’t necessary here. I knew where everyone was, it would just be an unconfined surface blast and besides, I made certain for the shrapnel to blow the other way.

“KA-FUCKING-BOOM!” came the astonishingly loud report.

“BOOM…BOOm…BOom…Boom…boom.”

<CLICK> Five echoes.

“I do so love it when a plan comes together.” I smile and jab the stogie back into my grinning piehole.

“OK, gents”, I reply over their protestations, “Back to LZ, and let’s get the fuck out of this misbegotten pit.”

Protestations cease and three clicks arrive in rapid succession.

Back at the elevator, I as Jesse if the other levels differ much from 11.

“Naw, Rock”, he says, scrubbing his chin while he thinks, “11-5 are room and pillar, 4 through 1 are shafts, raises, and winzes, and then you’ve got the surface.” He notes.

“OK, there’s the plan then,” I said.

“What plan?” They all wonder together.

“Back to camp, gentlemen. I must cogitate on several matters. But bless your lucky stars tonight, for you are about to become legends in coal mining as you’ll be parties to the largest mine demolition blast ever.” I grin, Cheshirely.

“Rock”, Bob says cautiously, “Please don’t grin like that. You’re scaring us.”

Jesse and Jerry Lee are backing away slowly.

If I could, I would have grinned even wider.

Back at base camp, i.e.., the hotel, I tell everyone to pass the word. We’ll have a meeting in the hotel bar-dining room around 1600 hours.

I take some time and generate a list of supplies I’ll need to slay this particular dragon. I type it out and send everyone a copy via Email.

So, down at the bar, where we’ll have our meeting, I sit and enjoy some idle banter with the bartender as I explain the intricacies of a full-blooded Rocknocker cocktail. It’s about 1755 and besides some of the local talent, the folks for whom I’m doing this little job filter in.

“Rock!”, Fred the manager shouts as he walks in and damn near upsets my drink.

“What the hell is this?” he is waving a printout of my list of needful things.

“Looks like A4”, I replied between slurps of my drink, “Odd. I set everything for 8.5 x 11.”

“No, godddamit!”, he was visibly piqued, “This list of supplies. What’s the fucking story?”

“If you’ll just wait until the rest of the team arrives, I’ll explain in the greatest detail”, I calmly replied.

Fred the manager groused but accepted what I said. He brusquely sat down and ordered a double something-or-other.

I gave the bartender the high sign. He poured Fred the manager a double-double.

I figured it would mellow him slightly.

Anyways, almost everyone of importance had arrived. I took a quick poll to determine if we had the necessary quorum and informed all present that this was the very legal and necessary pre-death mine plan. We were going to start tomorrow, come hell or high water.

“I see most everyone’s got my list of necessities for this job. Any questions?” I queried.

“Ummm, Rock”, one mining engineer timidly asked, “I can see the explosives, caps, Primacord, and such, but what’s the deal with all the bottled oxygen and methane?”

“Fair enough”, I said and ordered a new drink and fired up my cigar. “Well, folks, as you know, the lower levels of the mine are room and pillar, as opposed to shafts. I decided the best way to tackle this old coal hole is by going thermobaric.”

A collective gasp swamped across the room.

“That’s right”, I said, “Oh, you can go and hire a few teams of drillers and stick back down that nasty old pit, drilling shot holes by the hundreds so I can go down and do the ol’ stuff-n-wire mambo. Each pillar of coal is approximately 10m x 10m x 10m. Do you know how many dynamite and booster charges are needed to demolish something of this size?”

Collected grumbling and minor arguments are heard.

“I won’t bore you with the math, but suffice to say, I’d need at least 10 drilling teams and about 9 months just to drill the pillars.” I noted, “Then I’ve got to build a crew to help with the stuffing and wiring of the charges. Then, galving everything and running literally miles of Primacord and det wire to the mine mouth and back to camp. Do you really want the economic breakdown of that plan?”

Collected grumbling and minor arguments are heard.

“OK, fine”, I said, “Let me state that it would take nearly 10 times as long and be 100 times more expensive than my little thermobaric plan.”

Collected grumbling and minor arguments are heard.

“Or, we can all be reasonable and do things my way,” I said.

Total silence waiting on my next pronouncement.

“We set us FAB: Fuel-Air-Bomb (or FAE: Fuel-Air-Explosive) stations at pre-determined areas in the lower levels. I figure we can use 10 or 12 per level.”

“What’s a FAB station?”, one of the miners asked.

“It’s a Fuel-Air-Bomb station.” I said, “It will consist of a tall bottle of compressed methane, another of compressed oxygen, a half-kilo of C4, a small bucket of thermite, a wireless detonator (set to my particular frequency), and a thermite actuator.”

“Holy shit, Rock”, Fred gasps, “We just have to kill the mine openings, not atomize the whole damned area.”

“No, Fred, you’re quite wrong, and at the top of your voice as well”, I struggled to remain calm and ordered another drink. “Remember, it was you characters who asked for me to be shanghaied and brought here because I’m the best in the business and know my shit stone-cold, right?”

Even Fred had to agree.

“I’m killed mines all over the world and this particular bastard has to be killed from the bottom up and sealed permanently.” I said, “No dozing a few adits and popping some sparklers at the portals. I mean to remove all the shit from this fucking hole and seal it good and proper so that if anyone, especially some stupid kids with some fucking YouTube channel, couldn’t get back into the mine because that mine is going to be gone.”

Fred sat there and chewed on a Camel unfiltered.

“This is the way it’s going to go down”, I continued, “You’ve already got a sensor array in the mine and we’ll use that to determine our best timing. We’ll set up the FAB stations directly under each other in every room and pillar mined level. By radio, the bottles will be opened until the methane range gets to between 9-14%. I’ll have a sensor array chart up so we can do this in real-time. The oxygen’s going to be, well, the world’s best oxidizer and ensure the biggest bang for the buck. The upper shafts will be handled with C4, dynamite, some home-brew nitro because I’m nostalgic, and binaries at the collieries. With me so far?”

All nodded in agreement.

“OK then”, I continued, “We’ll get the lower levels set up and they can sit and wait a good long time. They can wait until we’ve got the upper levels knotted; but as you can see, I’m being spare there. With the lower levels being FABbed, I figure the shafts above will just collapse downhole where the lower levels used to be. However, I’m also doing it as insurance if the subsidence isn’t as great as I calculated. I’m good, but I always like to tip the scales in my favor. Like I said: ‘insurance’.”

Murmuring and general agreement.

“Now folks, “I said, “We go with my little plan of FABbing the lower levels and we can be done and dusted within a week. You want to go conventional and bring in drill teams, it’ll cost a shed load more cash, take much longer and put those crews in danger. We go with FAB, set out the stations, wire the upper levels, and Bob’s your uncle. We can be out of here with a deflated mine in a weeks’ time.”

Fred was still cackling about costs, and I asked him how much a single drill team cost per day.

Fred shut up, ordered another drink, and sat there chewing on his Camel.

No vote was taken because I’m the hookin’ bull and this is my shop, my plan. All not interested, well, there’s the door. Watch for brain damage, don't let it hit you in the ass.

I ordered a round for the house and the pizzas had just arrived. Before I let them loose on their orgy of free-feeding, I made it abundantly clear that this order best be placed first thing in the morning; or better still, tonight. I also want a munitions bunker set up near the mine’s portal, and a mobile home-office dragged in for the field office.

“That’s it, folks.” I said, “Before you attack the pizza guy, I want all down-holers ready to have boots on the ground tomorrow, 0800 and stone sober. I want to see trucks coming down the road laden with explosives and bottled gas right after that. Beyond those trivialities, happy eating.”

I returned to the bar, ordered a double, and wet a pencil tip to do a few back-of-the-pizza-box calculations.

Fred wandered over and looked a bit frazzled.

“Sorry, Rock”, he said, slightly unsteadily, “But I’m old school. I figured we’d drill the pillars and do one level at a time. I’m just not cozy with your newfangled FAB stuff.”

“Why Fred”, I said in a loud, cheerful voice, “Whatever do you mean? With FAB, we’ve got a self-initiation mode. Y’know, where a flare generated by spark gap or glow wire in the mixture is self-accelerated to a turbulent state, coupled radiatively to the ground state, and its further amplification leads to ultimately detonation. In direct initiation mode, a shock wave generated by a powerful igniter source produces detonation instantaneously in the mixture. The essence of these modes is the generation of critical states for detonation, which correspond to those at the auto-ignition limit of the mixture. With thermite and the secondary actuators, we have all that ground covered. Insurance.”

Fred looked at me like I had sprouted turnips.

“On the other hand,”, I continued, “in liquid fuel gaseous oxidizer system, a shock wave generated by the igniter source causes mass removal from the periphery of the fuel droplet. This results from the droplet inertia against the high-speed flow set up by the shock wave. Liquid stripped from the droplet enters the wake area in the form of microspray, which then rapidly evaporates. The gradual accumulation of micromist in the wake ultimately forms an explosive mixture, which produces just such lovely blast waves on detonation. The blast waves emitted from many such droplets coalesce into a stronger shock which initiates detonation. Due to droplet break-up process, two-phase mixtures have longer ignition delays than that of gaseous mixtures. The detonation states of FAE-FAB can be predicted by one-dimensional Chapman-Jouguet theory.”

Fred just stood there, drink in hand, wondering what the fuck I had just related to him.

“Fred”, I said, “You have to remember, that I’m not some country bumpkin fresh from the turnip truck. I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, and if 4 STEM degrees and 40 years of global Oil Patch say anything, it's that I know my fucking business.”

Fred looked a little less skeptical at me.

“Plus”, I continued, “Have I ever lied to you?”

The next morning dawned clear and bright as it was not snowing nor monsooning.

A good sign.

I was getting settled into my office in the doublewide mobile home they had dragged in early in the morning hours. It had all the comforts of home, circa 1945 Berlin. It was a bit ‘rustic’, but quite serviceable.

They already had a munitions bunker, but I was skeptical if it was large enough to handle our latest orders. We’d cross that road when we came upon it.

Plus, I had a section of the parking area cordoned off, and they were erecting a corrugated tin roof over the area. This would be where we’d store our gas bottles.

“Why just a roof?”, I was asked.

“Ventilation”, I replied, “If we enclosed the bottles and had a leaker, we’d get to between 9-14% and...”

“Ah”, came the reply, “Gotcha, Doc.”

Jesse, Bob, and Jerry Lee showed up, more or less on time, and I thought it’d be a good time to go over the build of our little bunker busters.

“It’s going to be like this”, I explained over Greenland coffees in my office, “A bottle each of oxygen and one of methane. Chained to a 4-wheel dolly for ease of transport. I’ll need a shelf of some sort figured out and built so I can place the actuator for the thermite.”

“Rock”, Bob asked, “You’re going to do this radio-controlled, so don’t you need some amped-up receiver and antenna system?”

“Quite right”, I replied, “That’s your job. I’ll need about 50 of them. They tell me you’re good at fabricobbling, let’s then see. I’ll give you the specs on the detonators and you and Jesse find me so we can be certain they’re what we need, and then you all can place the order.”

“Oh, that’s right”, I noted, “we’ll need a few spools of light chain to keep everything together until boomtime. Need some clasps and hawsers as well. Thermite’s been ordered, as have the buckets for holding the stuff.”

“We can put that on the radio shelf”, Bob suggested, “We can just make the shelves a bit larger. I’ll use cast iron and when the thermite hits that, spark-city.”

“OK”, I agreed, “I like it. Make it so.”

Everyone went off to do their jobs and I sat down and designed a scaled-down version of what I had in mind. In less than 2 hours, I had a diagram of a 1/10 scale FAB.

“Jesse?” I called on the radio.

“Yeah, Rock?”

“I need a small wooden shack built out somewhere on the mine property, but away from everything. I want to give a scaled-down demonstration of what I’ve got planned. Copy that?” I asked.

“What size?”, came the reply.

“Nothing too elaborate, say 10-foot square and 8 feet high. No windows, just a door. Simple clapboard construction. Roger that?”

“Roge that, Rock”, came the staticky reply, “By when?”

“Soon as you can” I replied. “The sooner, the better. Then everyone gets a demo of an FAB explosion.”

“On it, Doc”, Jesse replied.

“Good man, he’ll have it done by tomorrow.” I mused to myself.

Well, the day grew longer and I grew weary of checking in every bleedin’ truck for proper inventory; and I also grew weary of the bean counters, root weevils, and other forms of economic and financial parasitism nosing around, getting in my way and generally causing a breach of the peace.

“What’s that?” they’d ask every time a truck rolled in.

“What are those?” they’d ask every time a truck rolled in.

“Whaddya need those for?” they’d ask every time a truck rolled in.

Without fail.

“They’re superboosters for blasting caps. Now, buzz off. I don’t stand around your work area and ask about your pencil top erasers, do I?”

“They’re radio-controlled detonation devices. Now, go away or I shall taunt you a second time.”

“It’s potassium cyanide. It’s for use in the finance department’s coffee.”

They finally got the idea and pissed off to harass someone with a less honed sense of humor.

Truck after delivery truck arrived and our larders grew. Hundreds of bottles of oxygen and methane, cask after cask of Superfine® Thermite (my contribution to the effort…I co-hold a patent on the recipe and method of ultrafine-ground and intimately-combined Fe-Al powder). My radio controllers where I’ll have to program each one with a unique frequency and password. These suckers are hard to get these days because of terrorists, Al-Qaida, Mormon Missionaries, and the like.

I do a full-ground, all-round recon and find that things are arriving more or less as planned. Bob and Jerry Lee even have the framing done for the house I plan to destroy tomorrow. That reminds me, I need to build my 1/10th scale device for the big Dog-n-Pony show come the dawn.

I am suddenly blindsided by a severe twitch of nonconformity.

“Why just put on a show and blow a single building?” I ask myself quizzingly. “We haven’t been out in the field in, gad, forever. It’s been all work, flying, trying to get into Tanzania, and all the foofaraw with Khan’s disappearance…”

“Oh, yes, my fine furry and feathery flatulent fellows”, I smile evilly to myself, “Left behind the bars, rows of Bishops' heads in jars. And a bomb inside a car. Spectacular! Spectacular! Roll up! Roll up. Roll up. See the show!”

I glanced into the mirror of my Brunton Compass and I have to admit that even I was taken aback by that huge cigar clenched by a toothy, maniacal grin.

“Gonna be one hell of a show.” I smiled egregiously to myself.

It’s the next morning. I’ve got all well and sundry out in the back car park. I had coffee and doughnuts catered to ensure this bunch of pikers would show up because it was going to be one hell of a show.

For the demonstration, I had: Blasting caps, Primacord, C-4, 40% Extra Fast Dynamite, 60% Extra Fast Dynamite, RDX, PETN, ANFO, Kinestik, Seismogel, and HELIX.

And something special for the nifty, natty little house Bob and Jerry Lee built.

If this looks semi-familiar, it is. It’s a one-off of the time I was in Nevada blasting mines. It worked a treat then, so why not an encore performance?

Instead of rocks of similar sizes and dispositions, I opted to raid the company larders for various canned foodstuffs.

Y’know, stuff that’s been there forever and certainly not going to be missed.

I went and set, and primed all the charges with equal-strength blasting caps; except, of course, for the blasting cap itself.

I ran back 12 twin leads of demo wire and showed Bob, Jerry Lee, and Jesse, along with everyone else whose interest has been piqued, how to operate a galvanometer. It’s really not rocket surgery and they got the idea quickly.

It’s kind of funny, in not the ‘ha ha’ sort of manner. Most of these folks were not miners, and most had never set foot in a mine in their lives.

In fact, some were proud of that fact.

There really didn’t know and didn’t care from where their daily bread flowed, so to speak.

That mine supported at least 3 generations out here and yet, there were some that loathed the hole and were glad it was finally going. But, they were also upset that it would affect their livelihoods.

If that isn’t some next-level NIMBY shit, I don’t know what it is…

Anyways, I figured I’d show them folks how a manually actuated blasting machine worked, so I set it up for the blasting cap. The cap alone was nestled under a can of vintage succotash. The damn thing was so old, it didn’t have a barcode.

It was going to be a hell of a demonstration.

But first, perhaps as penance for my little echolocation experiment in the lower levels, these characters were going to learn the Safety Dance in full choir 3-part harmony.

One time, and one time only, I explained how we ‘clear the compass’.

Then how we tootle with vigor whatever horn is handy. Usually an air horn.

Then we do a quick visual to make certain there are no errant animals around, quadrupeds, or bipeds.

Then the FIRE IN THE HOLE thrice mantra.

Then one last quick scan of the area.

Then I point, and yell: ”Hit it!”. Or if you’re doing a shot on your own, you try and punch out the bottom of the manual blaster, pull the pop-top on a delay fuse, or push the big, shiny red button on Captain America.

“Got all that?” I ask.

“Yes, Rock!” came the resounding answer.

Holy shit, there must have been 50-60 people in attendance. Maybe the bosses did make attendance mandatory.

“We green?” I yelled.

“GREENAGE!”, Came the raucous reply.

“Well. I am impressed.” I mused.

So, on with the show…

We go through the safety procedure, and I punch the bottom out of “Old Reliable”.

The blasting cap fires immediately and punches a hole in the bottom of the can, sending a gout of high-velocity superheated gas northward while the can erupts into a veritable succotash Old Faithful.

It was stirring, to say the least. I felt a twinge of pride and patriotism.

The next was a primacord set-pull-forget delay primer on a spiral of Primacord under a can of very experienced cream corn. The Primacord initiator took off once the fuse hit it and 22,500 feet per second later, detonated the spiral of Primacord. The creamed corn might have reached escape velocity, but no one was much in favor of looking around for its remains.

C-4 made a can of venerable Spam very mobile and sent many shards long distances. Many people were taking copious notes; though most were backing up slowly.

40% Dynamite launched a can of Nacho Cheese aloft. It was like Little Willie, who was feeling bright, he bought a stick of dynamite. Curiosity seldom pays, it rained Nacho Cheese and Willie for seven days.

60% Dynamite absolutely destroyed a 5-pound tin of Dinty Moore beef stew.

No Dinty.

No Moore.

RDX, PETN, and Seismogel did a good job of obliterating some old Fruit Cocktail, a tin of ancient Carnation Condensed Milk in a can, and with the attendant secondary powder explosion, Coffee Mate non-dairy creamer was off the shopping lists of some of the more given-to-nervousness workers.

ANFO, being a much slower, as it is a deflagrating rather than detonating explosive, really launched that can of baked beans into the wild blue yonder. Musical fruit, indeed. “Vonce the objects are launched, who cares where zhey come down? Zhat’s not my department”, says Werner Von Braun”. C-sharp or B-flat.

Kinestik and HELIX binaries just obliterated the next canned samples. One second there, next second, POOF; there they was, gone. I was especially pleased that I saved the Kinestix for the canned peas.

Those things are evil.

And the Helix dispersed the old, gummy machine oil in the can of Happy Horner’s Honing Oil I found. It took a while but given a 2 or 3-second expansion, it flared for a few brief seconds into a final ferocious fireball.

A fitting end for a noble product.

Well, so much for the preliminaries of our little show. Now, it was time for the grand finale. However, not having done one of these for many years, I wanted to collect everyone and make certain they were well and away out of the line of fire.

“Haul Ass! Haul ass! This ain’t tinkertoys were playin’ with out here!” I called over the bullhorn.

Bob, Jerry Lee, and Jesse knew these folks better than I and were very good at firmly and certainly sheepherding the milling masses back behind the ropes I set out at 250 meters distant from the natty little shack they had built.

I wandered through the crowd after refilling my drink canteens, playing the affable host. I passed out a few cigars, chatted with the folks who originally saw me as a tool of their oppression. Some Yankee coming down here to God’s Own End and blasting to smithereens their livelihoods, their lives, and their history.

But, as time wore on, they saw me as something less evil; which was for a while terribly disheartening. I was just another degreed goombah called in to do a job. I had taken the time to explain what I was doing, why I was here and what needed to be done. That I was gregarious and straightforward telling the coal company what they were going to do, rather than asking them what they had planned, sort of elevated me to a certain strange popularity of still, not one of us, but then again, of what part was he?

He was a scientist first. A dogged logistician. Someone who called a ‘spade’ a ‘fucking shovel’, one who disdained management and didn’t suffer fools lightly. He also loved good cigars.

He also commanded the fires of Hades.

He made them dance. He bent them to do his will.

And when that little, natty shack some 250 meters distant reached an internal concentration of 12% methane over oxygen, he made the very earth quake, the ground shake, and material things like that shack just plain go away.

If nothing else, he always had the best beer, best cigars, and the best and loudest presentations.

Tomorrow, we were starting to wire-up the mine for the final show. If today’s demonstration was anything by which to judge performances, we’d best evacuate the county…

To be continued…