Bill watched as the others ambled off to inspect Connor's office. He honestly couldn't have cared less about the state of things there; he had his own problems to deal with, and all of them were more important in his mind than the conditions of a mechanic's lair.
"Didn't ever get no office, back when I was roughneckin'," he grumbled, stomping his way to a metal workbench and lowering the drill-bit onto it with a grunt and thud. "Mechanics with an office...This should be his damned office! Gramps managed t'run that old body shop once he left the fields for fi'teen years, an' never had no damned office."
He cast about for a rag, found a package full, then snatched a can of grease-cutting cleaning fluid and began spraying the filthy bit down, muttering to himself all the while.
"Kids these days...Entitlement, that's what it is," he groused as the astringent liquid began bubbling its way through the accumulated grime. The drill-hand turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice into a conveniently-located trashcan, his hands automatically going about the task of scrubbing the drill bit clean. Bill had always been known for his private monologues, though he'd never been aware of the fact. The few times someone had dared challenge him for badmouthing them "behind their back," he'd happily (and loudly) repeated his personal feelings to their face. One look at his hammer-like fists and stone-faced glare had generally been enough to persuade even the most belligerent of laborers that not only were his private rants not a product of cowardice, but that he'd be more than willing to settle the issue with them out behind the Foreman's office, if they were so inclined.
"Drill chief for the damned shift, an' I ain't got my own office...Fuckin' college gradjiates an' their desks an' private bathrooms..."
After several minutes of scrubbing, wiping, spraying, spitting, and griping, the bit shone like new on the workbench. Bill inspected his work, gave a satisfied nod, and had just heaved the bulk back onto his shoulder when a linguistic cacophony filled the bay.
"How's it cutting' der, b'y? Whattya at? Or is no one home, a'tall?"
Halting in his tracks, the bear-like drill chief turned to face the newcomer. He blinked, cocked his head, and then summoned all of his rough-neck eloquence.
"Huh?"
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Post away. Attention everyone : I have...something. Something awful. Some sort of bloody plague.
I'll resume writing when I no longer want to die. Just give me a few days to get over...whatever this is. Thanks.
I'll resume writing when I no longer want to die. Just give me a few days to get over...whatever this is. Thanks.
My friend has a little girl named Remington. Remi for short.
That's Oklahoma for you hahaha.
The friend herself, on the other hand, is aggressively Irish.
Dierdre Maire O'Connor. That's a whole pint of Irish right there.
That's Oklahoma for you hahaha.
The friend herself, on the other hand, is aggressively Irish.
Dierdre Maire O'Connor. That's a whole pint of Irish right there.
I didn't know that, Kuro, but I can't say I find it surprising.
From what I've seen of their subculture, it's a carnival of sexual horrors.
Like a prom after-party during Mardi Gras, if Cthulhu was invited and he spiked all of the drinks.
I mean, I've seen enough of Japan to know where this is going, and it's nowhere pleasant.
From what I've seen of their subculture, it's a carnival of sexual horrors.
Like a prom after-party during Mardi Gras, if Cthulhu was invited and he spiked all of the drinks.
I mean, I've seen enough of Japan to know where this is going, and it's nowhere pleasant.
KuroTenshi said
Haha actually I randomly thought about that, like Gavin and Connor collab to make a body for OLGA; but that might be straying too far into the realm of Sci-fi fantasy ALTHOUGHI think Japan is currently developing the robot's that look just like humansthey're strangely very creepy
Somewhere in Japan, someone will use that for sex.
If they haven't already. It's a statistical absolute. A Japanese man is going to fuck that.
Nicely done, Igraine. I like Hallerna; she's a tough broad.
All of the ladies here are.
All of the ladies here are.
KuroTenshi said
Was that the dude that set his ex-wife's house on fire?
No, Kuro, that was AW, pronounced "A-Dubya". He was one of our crew Teamsters. Truck driver, hauling gear for us.
I'm glad I could give everyone a chuckle. Bill is proving fun to write for; I get to unleash my inner curmudgeon, and it's fun parodying the old Foreman in my life that I based him on. ;)
Coincidentally named Darrel Williams. Though he was much smaller than Bill, physically, the entire pipeline knew of Old Darrel's temper, and to stay out of the way lest he start tossing gear when something went wrong.
Coincidentally named Darrel Williams. Though he was much smaller than Bill, physically, the entire pipeline knew of Old Darrel's temper, and to stay out of the way lest he start tossing gear when something went wrong.
Bill Cothran stood silently in the equipment room just off of Hangar 6, where the non-integrated portions of the drilling and mining gear were stored. His blue eyes were aflame as they played over what was now his responsibility, taking in the dirt, grime, and general filth caked and smeared on the complicated hunks of machinery scattered haphazardly around the room. It was clear that the mining team for second shift had stopped caring months before their shift ended; the equipment was a wreck, and clearly hadn’t been cared for nearly as well as it should have been.
“Lazy sons’a’bitches…”
His words became a snarl, and his massive hands flexed dangerously for a moment as his iconic temper flared like gas on a bonfire. Growling in his throat, the burly miner stuck one coal-shovel paw under a nearby cart piled high with filthy tools and parts and upended it with a grunt, scattering the offending objects with a shocking clatter of metal on metal. He stood for a moment longer, reigning in his wrath, then stalked over to a worktable holding another pile of grease-caked drill parts.
Can’t clean up after themselves...Can’t even make sure shit’s in workin’ order for the next crew…. Bill was a hardass where work was concerned. He always had been. His father had taught him that your tools were analogous to your life; if a man couldn’t keep his gear in order, how could he expect to keep his life in order? The state of a man’s equipment could tell you the state of his finances, the state of his house, and the state of his personal life. Bill always kept his in top shape, and he expected the same from those he worked with.
Seizing a detached drill-bit about the size of a basketball, Bill hauled it up onto his shoulder with a growling grunt and stalked from the room, the 100+ lb chunk of steel settling its uncomfortable (but by no means unbearable) weight onto the meat of his shoulder, secured in place by the iron-like grip of his right arm.
“Reece!” he roared, storming towards the good ship Loretta, his long strides eating the distance with surprising speed for a man of his age.
“Shit-birds! Shit-birds, every one of ‘em! They didn’ clean a fuckin’ thing, half the damn gear has busted up hydraulic lines, there’s hydro-fluid every-fuckin’-where, and…”
He paused, eyes locking on Delilah, and pointed at her with the sausage-like index finger of his left hand.
“Who the fuck are you? We don’t want any ThinMints. We got shit to do, girl.”
“Lazy sons’a’bitches…”
His words became a snarl, and his massive hands flexed dangerously for a moment as his iconic temper flared like gas on a bonfire. Growling in his throat, the burly miner stuck one coal-shovel paw under a nearby cart piled high with filthy tools and parts and upended it with a grunt, scattering the offending objects with a shocking clatter of metal on metal. He stood for a moment longer, reigning in his wrath, then stalked over to a worktable holding another pile of grease-caked drill parts.
Can’t clean up after themselves...Can’t even make sure shit’s in workin’ order for the next crew…. Bill was a hardass where work was concerned. He always had been. His father had taught him that your tools were analogous to your life; if a man couldn’t keep his gear in order, how could he expect to keep his life in order? The state of a man’s equipment could tell you the state of his finances, the state of his house, and the state of his personal life. Bill always kept his in top shape, and he expected the same from those he worked with.
Seizing a detached drill-bit about the size of a basketball, Bill hauled it up onto his shoulder with a growling grunt and stalked from the room, the 100+ lb chunk of steel settling its uncomfortable (but by no means unbearable) weight onto the meat of his shoulder, secured in place by the iron-like grip of his right arm.
“Reece!” he roared, storming towards the good ship Loretta, his long strides eating the distance with surprising speed for a man of his age.
“Shit-birds! Shit-birds, every one of ‘em! They didn’ clean a fuckin’ thing, half the damn gear has busted up hydraulic lines, there’s hydro-fluid every-fuckin’-where, and…”
He paused, eyes locking on Delilah, and pointed at her with the sausage-like index finger of his left hand.
“Who the fuck are you? We don’t want any ThinMints. We got shit to do, girl.”
Working on a post for Bill, and probably one for Mike after that as well. Things have been busy, I apologize for the absence. Bill's will probably be on the shorter side; I need to get him into the hangar, and can then commence with stuff and things.
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