You’ve heard it a million times: Halloween was originally a Celtic celebration during the time of the harvest. It then became Christianized, and turned into All Hallow’s Day–the feast that started the 3-day period of remembrance of the dead. Blah blah blah 
, rapid commercialization, now we have Halloween as we know it.
Well, friends, I’m afraid you’ve been snowed by these popular myths yet again. The TRUE story of Halloween revolved around a man named Cornelius Trickor: a 1st generation British immigrant, and Oklahoma farm owner in 1899.
Cornelius was a man, who like many others at the time, was chasing the American dream. And all things considered, he was doing a damn fine job. He had a 55-acre plot about 10 miles south of the hustle and bustle of Oklahoma City. Corn, wheat, rye, cabbage, potatoes, tomatoes–you name it, Cornelius could grow it, and grow it well. The owner of Booth’s General store in OK City would make the ten-mile hike twice a week so he could have the honor of stocking his shelves with Trickor’s produce, not to mention the delectable jellies and preserves that Mrs. Trickor canned with the extra fruits they grew.
The Trickor family had it made. Cornelius’ two young sons were well read, well fed, and well-versed in how to cultivate crops in the loamy Oklahoma soil. His wife was the best baker, seamstress, and canner within 50 miles, and Cornelius had made a name for himself with his impeccable fruits and vegetables.
In the late spring of 1902, a family called the Hallows purchased a 20-acre plot that butted up against the Trickor farm on the western side. Caroline Trickor, Cornelius’ wife, was beside herself with excitement. She thought having another family around would certainly do everyone some good. She whipped up her best strawberry rhubarb pie and marched straight over to the Hallow’s house. It was then that she first realized that something may have been wrong about the Hallow family. First, they didn’t have a lick of farming equipment. Not even so much as a hand plow. How in the heck were they going to manage a farm in Oklahoma with no tools? But, she put it out of her mind. The Hallows seemed nice enough anyway.
There was Robert Hallow, who always insisted on being called Bob. He seemed a bit rotund to be a farmer. Then there was his wife, Evelyn. She had deep-set eyes, a flush, pock-marked face, and a bulbous nose. She reminded Caroline of the drunkards who used to whistle at her outside of the tavern when she’d go into town to sell her wares. Then there were the 2 Hallow boys. Couldn’t have been a day over 14, and they were both solid as thoroughbred horses–the kind of physique that only comes with plenty of heavy lifting. Caroline couldn’t imagine how such young boys could’ve developed so quickly.
It would only be a few days before the Trickor family discovered that the Hallows were not farmers at all. Bob was an oil prospector, who’d just come up from Texas after striking a well. Paid him pretty well, too, apparently. He was able to pay the local boys to build him a real nice farmhouse in no time at all. In fact, by the time summer rolled around, the Hallows had an oil derrick parked on their front lawn. It was right around the solstice when Cornelius peered out the window to see Bob Hallow walking up to his house, seemingly with a purpose.
Bob offered to buy the Trickors’ land for 2000 dollars. Caroline almost had to jump out of her chair to stop Cornelius from immediately accepting the offer. After all, Bob’s offer was for about twice as much money as they made from the farm the previous year. But with some gentle persuasion, Caroline helped her husband realize that this farm represented the life they built together, and that throwing his legacy away for 2000 dollars is about the stupidest thing a man could do.
Hallow stormed out of the house in a huff. Not once had he ever been rejected when seeking to buy property for prospecting. Only this time he wasn’t prospecting. He just knew that there was a large oil field just under the roots of the Trickor family’s crops. He had to have that property, but he knew that the Trickors wouldn’t sell. Bob became blind with fury. Poor Evelyn tried to keep him from doing something irrational, but that just made her the target of his ire. Not being able to stand to see her husband so upset, Evelyn decided that she would poison the Trickors’ water well–then her husband could have the property he so wanted.
Unfortunately for Eve Hallow, Caroline Trickor was watching from her window, and witnessed Mrs. Hallow pour a bucket of some substance into the well. After Eve left, Caroline went to the well, and could faintly smell spirits of ether, a tincture of cannabis, and a tincture of opium. She realized that she must tell her husband immediately.
Cornelius, surprisingly enough, wasn’t angered by the news at all. In fact, Caroline could see a glint of happiness in his eyes that she had noticed was missing since he had rejected Bob’s offer. The next morning, Cornelius instructed his boys to stay inside, and not to make themselves at all visible to the Hallow family. That afternoon, Cornelius walked over to bring the Hallow family the bad news: The Trickor boys were dead, apparently died in their sleep of natural causes. Cornelius informed Bob that he’d be burying his boys the day after tomorrow, and that they’d be moving back east within two weeks’ time. Bob offered his condolences.
When Cornelius returned home, he told his sons that they would be “haunting” the Hallow household that evening. They smothered dirty bed linens with animal leavings and wore them around their bodies. They painted their faces pitch black with charcoal from their mother’s wood stove. And during the witching hour, The Trickor boys made their way to the Hallow house. When they arrived, they opened cupboards, slammed doors, and stomped the floorboards. Evelyn Hallow was the first to poke her head from the bedroom. When she saw the blackened faces of the Trickor boys illuminated by the moonlight, she was struck with horror. She ran back into the bedroom and hid.
Moments later, Bob Hallow emerged, wielding a candlestick for his weapon. The young Trickors danced around him and told to him the tale of his wife’s misdoings. Bob was apologetic, and desperate not to have these apparitions put an end to his life. So he asked them what they would take as reparations for the damage his wife had caused. The young boys, not knowing what to ask for, demanded that he hand over his food supply, especially his supply of sweets. They returned to the Trickor house triumphant, and with armfuls of food.
The very next morning, Bob came to the door of the Trickor house with a solemn expression on his face. When Cornelius opened the door, Bob explained everything: his wife poisoned the well, which killed the Trickor boys, who haunted Bob, which led him to come confess. Cornelius couldn’t help but to then confess his own bad deed–sending his sons to “haunt” the Hallow family. The two men embraced, each walking away from the situation much richer in spirit than he had ever been before.
Many years later, Cornelius would write a book on the topic of neighborliness entitled “The Trickor Treatise.” Which, as I’m sure you know, is the basis for modern Halloween. You send your children to the house of neighbors you don’t know very well, asking for candy, with the implication being that you trust your neighbor enough not to poison your children. It is the foundation of community building in the modern world. And as for Evelyn Hallow; she’s the reason why we send our kids out dressed as ghosts. When I asked my parents when I was younger, “Why do we dress up for Halloween?” They’d always respond, “It’s all Hallow’s Eve.” Now I get it.
Well, loyal readers, I’m sorry it has come to this, but I’ve had to sell some advertising on my blog. I really thought the revenue stream associated with blogging was a lot bigger. But, apparently pulling 51 unique hits per post just isn’t very attractive to most advertisers, so I kinda had to scrape the bottom of the barrel–to be frank, a lot of them are radio ads for small local businesses.
First and foremost, a spot from a local alehouse and greasy spoon in Wisconsin:
Next, we have a guy who plays and reviews indie video games, without ever showing you the game. He calls his show “You Heard it First,” and it’s dedicated to giving you an audible look at video games. Call me Debbie Downer, but I don’t know if this one’s gonna work out.
And finally, some guy payed me 50 bucks to promote his country-western cover album, “Left is Right, and That ain’t Bad.” His name is Andrew Jackson, and here’s a clip of one of his… interesting country covers.
Now that I’ve got some sponsor money, who knows what I can accomplish!!
I’m fairly certain I’ve been an old man my entire life.
I can remember, at about 12 years old, waiting in line with my friends to ride a roller coaster at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, Virginia. As they bragged about how they were totally going to flick off the camera, I smiled and drifted off into my own little world. I stared at each bolt, rivet, and weld that held the track in place. I wondered exactly how long it takes to build one of these monsters, and how often someone walks the length of the track to inspect every individual bolt. How do they get up there? My friends and I were both equally fascinated by roller coasters, but for very different reasons. They liked the feeling of their organs floating in a loop–I liked to think about the order form for replacement parts for the chain lift. Do you think they used Anheuser-Busch letterhead?
That’s me. I’ve always had a tough time appreciating things at face value, and instead look much deeper to find what drives those things. Learning how the world works is my only true hobby, and all of my other pseudo-hobbies exist to serve it. It’s wonderful, but it has its downsides.
Very few people possess the logistician-colored goggles through which I see the world. Most don’t care how their hamburger became a hamburger, or what the profit margin is on a particular item at their favorite restaurant. This must be a great feeling, to not be burdened by the painstaking details of mundanity. The second I walk into an Applebee’s, I’m thinking about utility bills, the turf war that’s going on between the cooks and the waitstaff, and whether this is a franchise or a corporate-owned restaurant. I wonder if there’s a warehouse somewhere filled with license plates and old tobacco advertisements that is stocked by an army of Applebee’s pickers, or if there’s a sweatshop in Shanghai pumping out replicas. Of course, I never let on to anyone what I’m thinking in those moments, because it’s weird and nerdy for me to think about such things while on a social outing.
Indeed, my little affliction is the cause of much strife. It’s not always a good thing when you’re trying to enjoy a nice film with your family, and you can’t help but point out that the underlying narrative of Toy Story 3 is a metaphor for the Holocaust (it is! watch it again and think Dachau). Likewise, when you dissect every editing decision made in a television show, and the impact a writer or director was trying to achieve in making that edit, it sort of spoils Glee when everyone else just wants to enjoy the ultra-positive outlook and fun musical numbers. And maybe sometimes you get lost in the world’s most boring video game–a Farming simulator where you basically drive a tractor up and down rows of crops, and then wait until the next harvest grows–and you do it because you’re immersing yourself into a world with which you’re unfamiliar. Perhaps you are fascinated by the concept of managing the margins on your crops, and competing with other local farmers. I mean, that’s what did it for me, at least.
Turns out, modern psychology views my personality quirks very differently than I do. My psychologist recently summed up my personality quirks in 3 words: Attention Deficit Disorder. Little did I know, my penchant for immersion, my procrastination, forgetfulness, and persistent over-analysis of life can be explained by a 3 letter acronym. This was a paradigm-altering diagnosis for me–it explained why I struggled through high school, despite being one of the smarter kids in my graduating class (I’d constantly receive comments like this one, next to my D+ grades: “Incredibly smart, if he just applied himself, his future would be limitless”). It also seems to explain the former and current addictions of mine: marijuana, soda pop, junk food, alcohol, cigarettes. These were apparently all my sub-conscious attempts to mitigate my deficit of attention. (To be clear, the marijuana was gone as soon as I entered the military, and the soda pop remains the only real factor on this list, for those of you who may be keeping score). In fact, I didn’t even believe that ADD was a real thing until I took a hard, critical look at my past and present.
It was only then that I realized that I’m just as motivated as any individual I know–maybe even more so. I possess the talent to match my aspirations, but my own chemical make-up is restraining me from chasing those aspirations. Perhaps this post is a desperate, last-ditch attempt at explaining my own shortcomings. That is a legitimate possibility. But since I’ve never denied or been ashamed of my personality flaws, I doubt that my psyche is playing tricks on me. The more realistic scenario is that my therapist was right in calling me “the easiest ADD diagnosis” he’s ever had. Regardless, time will tell whether I’m just a lazy daydreaming slacker, or an artist who’s yet to shed his psychological baggage. I’ve officially begun cognitive behavioral therapy for ADD, and will begin taking medication on October 21st. In the mean time, you get posts like this one.
Being that the only language I speak is comprised of one-half ‘pedantic American,’ and one-half ‘insultingly bad impression of Shakespearean English,’ I often find popular music incredibly hard to understand. Whether it’s country music or French robot songs, I just don’t seem to understand the lyrics. Luckily for me, I found a translation service that meets my needs! Take this song for example, a hip-hop hit of the mid 90s:
It sounds amazing right? Now if only I could understand what exactly the song is about! Thanks to Google translate’s wonderful array of languages, I can now understand the tragic tale of Renee. See if you can follow along:
Allow me to regale you with the tale of my courtship of a beautiful maiden named Renee. I first laid eyes upon her whilst returning home from my daily university studies. She was walking to hire a horse and buggy. I was quite taken by her beauty, so I approached her and spake, “Pardon me madam, but may I have the pleasure of learning your name?”
“Renee,” she replied with a dismissive smile.
Feeling emboldened, I spoke again, “Madam, I have much I’d like to share with you. May I escort you to your stagecoach?”
“If it be your pleasure, sir,” she responded.
We began to speak of idle things as we strode towards the buggy depot. Along the way I purchased 2 sausages and some tea for us to share. While her impeccable fashion sense and sheer beauty entranced me, I felt I needed to test our mental and emotional compatibility. Thus, I began steering our conversation into new territory.
She spake of her desire to become a barrister. To phrase it differently, she studied the laws of the land. I began to tell her of my desire to become a great turner-of-phrase, when suddenly, while she reached for a copper to pay the buggy driver, Renee’s smoking papers fell out of her hand bag.
Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with a bejeweled hand. I quelled her embarrassment swiftly, “Oh m’lady, please don’t blush. I am also a lover of nature’s herbs. Yet, I use the tobacco leaf wrapper.”
“I never use such leaves, as I am told they are for miscreants and vagabonds,” she replied.
“Oh, no madam. Their effect endures much longer than with those pesky smoking papers. Perhaps some time in the future I may demonstrate for you their virtues.”
Alas, we shared a buggy. Every inch of her appearance was meticulously crafted to evoke her beauty. Yes, in fact, from her hair to her fingernails, Renee was perfect. Her neck was adorned with a string of pearls—a gift from her dear mother.
Our carriage arrived at twilight, as the sun fadeth in the west. She was worried that her hounds had not been fed, so we detoured to the butchery.
We arrived at the manor, and lit some torches to fight away the shadows of dusk. I took notice of the beauty of her home and its amenity. It truly spoke to her affluence in an otherwise destitute land.
“Do as you wish, sire,” she called to me. “I must tend to the hounds.”
“Very well, m’lady. I will show you the finer points of aromatic herb wrapped with tobacco leaf!”
Moments later, she returned wearing naught but a tunic and skirt. I knew then that she was a younger, innocent lady. We sat on the fainting couch, smoking herbs, then moved to the balcony to ponder the rolling landscape. We fell into each other’s arms. My discretion as a gentleman precludes me from speaking further on that matter.
I had found the maiden who would be mine. We smoked herbs and ate decadently through the night. We danced and revealed our darkest secrets. I could not have been happier.
The following morn, I awoke to a note left by my sweet lady. It read:
“Sire, I had to attend to some matters, I shall return before the sun sets.”
Having matters of my own to handle, I left a missive that included my home address, so that we could again rendezvous. I donned my traveling robes and smoked my morning herbs before departing.
In the afternoon, I received a couriered message. It contained a love message from m’lady. I replied in kind.
Our love caught fire in the following fortnight. I was reeling from romantic dinners with m’lady, as well as partaking in wine and herb with my mistresses. While I have never fallen in love, I still found that throughout my travels, my mind and heart yearned for sweet Renee.
One day, while enjoying some time with my hunt club brethren, I received a carrier pigeon on Renee’s stationery, beckoning me to her manor. To my surprise, upon my arrival I find only her poor mother.
“Renee was attacked. The doctors have taken her to be treated.”
I hopped aboard an express buggy, and made all haste to the infirmary. I wondered what fate had befallen m’lady. Without regard for safety or buggy regulation, I wildly puffed at my herbed cigar while careening through the village square.
Alas, by the time I reached the infirmary, Renee was no more.
“Sire, Renee has shuffled off this mortal coil,” a doctor said.
Now I perform a wine-pouring rite of mourning for my sweet Renee. As is customary for men of my background, I must shed my tears and mourn through prose and poem:
———————————————
“Tragic Love is the only love for people of our station,
With each passing day I ponder wherefore she was taken,
I mourn the loss of my sweet serf Queen every day,
Tip your cups for Renee.”
I find myself in this awkward position all the time: As a beautiful princess, I have two gentleman callers who desire my affection. How in the heck do I decide which prince I’ll take as my lover?! Luckily, long ago, in a far away place known as the 90s, a song was written exactly to help people in situations like this! Let’s take a look:
Darn it! Now I’m even more confused! This princess needs to look at some solid metrics. Luckily, for situations just like this one, I’ve got the Two Princes Venn Diagram!
But which one is cuter??
I’m very glad that I don’t have a personal Facebook page right now. I was absolutely blindsided by the upheaval caused by the Zimmerman verdict. It seems as if my liberal brethren are shocked, awestricken, and completely enraged by the court’s decision.
Before I officially begin my tirade, allow me to present my liberal résumé: I’m for increased gun regulation, pro-choice, pro-immigration reform, pro drug legalization, anti-fracking, etc… That should serve well enough to let you know where I stand generally.
All that said, I’ve been lucky (or unlucky) enough to have been subjected to minute by minute coverage of the George Zimmerman trial since it began a few weeks ago (thanks, office buddies). I’ve seen testimony from almost all of the witnesses in the case, as well as all of the 911 calls, video re-enactments, and other recorded statements from the trial. In this liberal’s opinion, the jury got the verdict absolutely correct.
In our court system, you are innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. With ALL of the forensic evidence indicating that Trayvon Martin was on top of George Zimmerman when he was shot, that fact alone should be enough for any jury to be convinced that there is a very reasonable doubt that the crime committed was murder, as opposed to an act of self defense. Not to mention the dozen or so other witnesses and pieces of evidence that corroborated Zimmerman’s account of what happened.
Another issue is the incredibly volatile issue of race. The media has largely portrayed Zimmerman (actually of mixed descent) as the white aggressor, while barely paying lip service to his Afro-Peruvian roots. In fact, George Zimmerman was one of the very few non-black people to protest the beating of a homeless black guy by a Sanford police officer–he even appealed to a local chapter of the NAACP for help in the matter, who told him they had scant few resources and could not help the cause.
With all of the facts at hand, we can see that Zimmerman wasn’t a racist, and also that Trayvon Martin didn’t deserve to die. However, our law allows a human being to kill another human being if he feels as if his life has been endangered. All you must prove to a court is that you had a reasonable fear that you may die or be seriously injured. Can you ask anything more of our justice system? Zimmerman is not a hate-fueled murderous bigot–that should be obvious to anyone who’s examined the majority of the evidence.
As I’ve said in a previous post, this is an incredible tragedy. Trayvon Martin’s family has suffered, and will for as long as they live. George Zimmerman has killed a young man, and he has to live with that for the rest of his life. Let’s have some compassion for everyone involved, and leave this topic alone. Let everyone go about their lives and actually heal from this tragedy, not drag it out with protests, spurious DoJ investigations, and civil law suits.
Nobody wins in this situation.
As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been absent from this blog for over a month. I’ve not forgotten about you, my precious friends. I’ve been moving from hotel to hotel with my family, and have had limited access to the internet and comfortable places to write.
Alas, I am back into a normal domicile, and regular posting should resume shortly, but probably only 3 or 4 times a month. Right now, my main creative focus is elsewhere, but I do plan to keep up with this blog and Fat Guys vs. Gym regularly. I can’t wait to share some of what I’ve been working on during my hiatus!
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time recently learning about the great American conspiracy theories of the past few decades. The best ones are widely publicized: Obviously, the Illuminati killed JFK. Sure, you know that 9/11 was an inside job. But did you know that FEMA is setting up internment camps to house innocent citizens once the government declares martial law? What about those weird trails in the sky that planes leave behind? Did you know that those trails are actually chemicals that are being sprayed in the atmosphere to control the weather/your mind?
Get ready to have your eyes opened, sheep! I’m going to school you on all of my personal favorite conspiracy theories:
1. Chemtrail Conspiracy: Maybe you’ve looked up into the sky and wondered why planes leave lines of clouds behind them. Maybe you’ve even taken the time to read the Wikipedia article on contrails, and learned that those lines of clouds are caused by condensation. But you didn’t look into the whole truth. The savviest of the savvy conspiracy theorists have exposed the truth behind those lines of clouds: mind control drugs. That’s right. The US government is spraying chemicals at high altitudes to either a. control the weather, b. infect people with diseases, or c. weaken the willpower of the people. My guess is that the government is guilty of all of the above. Notice how there are no contrails in other countries?
DHS Satellite images of Wyoming Death Camp!
2. FEMA Internment Camps: The federal government is planning to enact martial law, and is building lil’ Auschwitzes all over the US. According to this video on YouTube, facilities are being built to house (and murder) US citizens–they’ve even got gas chambers! They’ve also got satellite photography of a North Korean Wyoming death camp that is currently in use. I bet you had no idea how oppressed you are.
3. The Barackalypse: He was elected for a second term, and now he’s coming after your guns. Although I’ve yet to see anyone say exactly what President Obama’s end goal is for suppressing the human race, I do know that he’s doing it. Soon we’ll have to undergo a government background check just to buy laundry detergent. Millions of people are preparing themselves for the upcoming Barackalypse, and you should too. Make sure you protect your children as well–buy them a tactical vest so they, too can survive the Barackalypse. Remember the Cold War and Y2K? This is gonna be like those, except it will actually happen. For real.
Consider yourself reborn. You are no longer a sheeple. I’ve enlightened you to what is actually going on in this country, not just what the LAME-stream media wants you see. You must be asking: “What can I do about it?” Don your tin foil hat and join me. Just donate $29.99 to my PayPal account, and I’ll reveal to you the key to survival in these trying times!
On a bitter cold, snowy morning in the hills of the once great American city of Los Angeles, the men of crew 5 huddle around a small fire burning in a metal trash can outside of a ramshackle convenience store before beginning the 3-mile trek to their assigned work at the Blanchard-Fieldings rare earth mine. The men smoke cigarettes as they carefully sip coffee from metal cylinders about the size and shape of soup cans. Their slate-colored work uniforms are covered in dirt and dust, with the exception of an embroidered bright blue number 5 on each man’s left shoulder.
Conrad Burke–a burly, golden-haired brute of about 30 years–carefully extinguishes his cigarette and tucks the stub into a small pouch attached to his belt. “Alright, time to go, boys,” he says as he adjusts his belt and begins to walk toward the road. The other 4 men follow in close tow. The men walk side by side down the cracked, snow-laden pavement towards the mine.
The Blanchard-Fieldings rare earth mine stands in stark contrast to its surrounding landscape. Sandwiched between two lush green hills covered in a blanket of soft snow, the 500-foot deep, miles wide crater littered with construction trucks and small buildings, when viewed from above, appears to be an open wound on the surface of the Earth. On the ground inside the open mine, heavy loaders dump tons of rocks, each one teeming with rare earth minerals, into large crushing machines. Geysers of water spew from turrets attached to enormous tanks of water as large as a small lake in an attempt to tamp down the dust that coats everything.
As the men of crew 5 approach the guard shack at the entrance to the mine site, they don hard hats emblazoned with the number 5. A fresh-faced young man, not older than 20, steps out of the shack dressed in a clean black uniform, an automatic rifle slung over his right shoulder. “Morning 5,” he says in a pleasant tone.
“Morning Tate,” Conrad replies coldly. None of the other men acknowledge the young man’s presence.
Tate gives a disappointed sigh and walks over to a panel on the side of the shack. He presses a button, and the large, rusty gate begins to slink open to let crew 5 into the mine site. “Have a good one Conny,” Tate says, giving a slight wave.
“Bye Tate,” Conrad replies.
On the other side of the gate, there is a white pickup truck with “BFCo” stickers on each door. Conrad opens the passenger door and slides into the cab. The rest of the men of crew 5 hop in the bed, and the truck heads down a series of ramps toward the bottom of the mine.
The driver of the pickup, a middle-aged woman with thinning brown hair, smiles at Conrad as she puts the truck in gear and begins the 15-minute drive down the winding pathways to the area where crew 5 will work today. “G’mornin Conny,” she says in her best imitation of the young guard.
“Nice to see you too, Liv,” Conrad says with a half-hearted snicker and an almost imperceptible grin.
Olivia Walten, assistant to the mine’s foreman, is always a breath of fresh air for Conrad, who otherwise only deals with gruff and unhappy conscripted miners, and the occasional overzealous security guard accusing his men of stealing the minerals they mine. Today, however, she seems slightly uneasy. Something about her posture suggests to Conrad that something is amiss. He decides not to bring it up, but instead, smiles and asks, “What sector are we working today?”
The genial expression disappears from Olivia’s face as she responds, “You’re working 17 again.” She braces herself for Conrad’s response.
“The black hole again?!” Conrad snorts, his eyebrows furled. “That’s the third time this month. How the hell are we supposed to meet our quota?”
Sector 17 is an area of the mine notorious for yielding extremely low quantities of rare earth minerals, and sits in an area with at least a mile in between it and its closest neighboring sector. The “black hole,” as the miners call it, is normally assigned to junior crews until they’ve earned the trust of management. Crew 5 has been the most productive crew on site for the last 18 months running. This month, they are in jeopardy of not meeting their quota for the first time, thanks largely to spending several days mining the black hole.
“I know Con, but Alva says he wants his best guys on 17, and you guys are it,” Olivia replies softly, desperately trying not to get caught in Conrad’s gaze.
“Why the hell does Alva have such a hard-on for 17? There’s nothing there, Liv! It’s been combed a dozen times by a dozen crews.” Conrad quickly realizes that his reaction was noticed by the crew, who are unabashedly staring through the back window into the cab of the pickup. He turns toward them, frowns, and gives a slight shake of his head. The crew turn away from the window, obviously understanding what’s being discussed inside the cab. Conrad turns back to Olivia and inhales sharply, as if he is going to yell, but he catches himself, and calmly asks, “What’s he think we’re gonna find down there?”
“I don’t know. He’s been out of town for the last week, visiting HQ. Been virtually unreachable. Matter of fact, the first time I got a call from him was last night — he wanted to make sure that 5 was working sector 17 this week.” She winces as if expecting to be physically injured by Conrad’s response.
“The whole week?! You gotta be shitting me! Why the hell is he doing this to us? Do you know what will happen if we don’t meet our quota, Liv? He’s gonna make an example of us. His best crew not meeting standards? That’s no small deal. He won’t just take away our cigarette rations or withhold our paychecks–he’s gonna cut off our food or medicine.” Conrad shakes his head vigorously in disgust at the prospect of his family going hungry.
“Sorry, Con,” Olivia replies with the softness of a mother comforting a crying child, “I wish there was something I could do.”
A few minutes later, the truck approaches sector 17. The tension drops from Conrad’s shoulders, and he lets out a long sigh as the truck slows to a stop near a wooden sign with the number 17 painted on it. “Sorry for yelling Liv. See you later.” He exits the cab without waiting for a response, as the men of crew 5 jump out of the truck bed. Olivia honks a staccato goodbye, and the truck rambles off.
Conrad walks over to a waiting excavator and fires up the engine. The rest of the crew heads over to a large green truck that opens up a lot like a carnival ride. On the truck’s long bed is a huge metal cylinder that begins spinning when one of the men flips a switch on an electrical panel near the front. The huge, semi-portable device, called a trommel, is used to separate the rare earth elements from other ferrous metals, rocks, and dirt. Two of the men take positions at the opening to the cylinder, helping to guide the large swaths of earth being dumped by Conrad’s excavator into the opening, while the other two men use large sluices to sift through what comes out the other end, and place any rare earth elements into large plastic drums for transfer to a nearby processing facility.
The men don’t talk while they work, as the trommel noise and the sound of the excavator make it difficult to hear anything but a shout. Instead, every hour or so, Conrad honks the excavator’s horn, and the men at the ends of the cylinder switch positions. It keeps the miners from getting too complacent in their duties.
A few hours into the shift, work hits a snag. The bucket of the excavator hits a large metal object. Unable to pull it out with the excavator, Conrad honks twice to summon his team. They come over, shovels in hand. Conrad hops down from the cab and begins to dig around the object with his team. Once the surrounding dirt and rocks are clear, he starts up the excavator and digs out the large piece of rusted metal, setting it on the ground near his team. The mangled, rusted piece of metal appears to be a truck door. While it is mostly rusted and hardly recognizable, there are small areas where Conrad can clearly see green paint. Upon further examination, small pieces of sticker still remain on the door panel. In fact, in the areas where the sticker once was, there is clearly still visible paint–enough for Conrad to make out what the stickers once said: BF 3155.
Conrad, immersed in examining the door, doesn’t notice the white pickup arriving to bring his crew lunch.
“Whatcha got there, Con? Piece of an old ‘Vette? Thinking of doing some restoration work?” Olivia smiles as she steps out of the truck, brown paper bags in her hands.
Conrad stands up with a confused look on his face, and starts towards Olivia. “You know if BFCo was doing any work in this area before the bombs?”
“Don’t think so,” she says with a quizzical look towards Conrad. She begins to hand out the paper bags to the men.
“We had any accidents at all in 17? Lose any equipment?” Conrad twists his nose and mouth to one side, as he often does when deep in thought.
“Gee, you’d know as good as I would Con, and I can think of anything. Why? What is that thing?”
“It’s a piece of BFCo equipment. A door or something. Got a serial number and everything. But judging by all the rust, it’s been here far longer than this mine has. What should we do with it?”
Olivia shrugs. “Probably just toss it with the rest of the waste. That’s what it is as far as I’m concerned. Old garbage.”
Conrad looks at Olivia, then back at the mangled door. He throws up both his and shrugs his shoulders. “Chuck, gimme a hand with this.”
A raven-haired young man looks up from his lunch and says “Sure, Boss,” as he sets his sandwich down, and helps Conrad toss the door into a nearby dumpster.
“I guess that’s that. Thanks for lunch, Liv,” Conrad says as he tears into a turkey sandwich, his mind still fixed on the rusty door.
The year is 2021. For the 10th time this decade, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea has cut off diplomatic ties with both the United States and South Korea. The mainstream media has long since stopped caring about the empty threats of North Korea–so much so, that the governments of both countries fail to recognize that this time, there are no such threats issued. When the bombs detonate, no one is prepared.
In March of 2021, portable nuclear weapons were detonated in 23 locations across the western United States. Military targets were struck in Northern California, Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, and San Diego. Major population centers such as San Francisco, Seattle, and Los Angeles each suffered multiple nuclear explosions. The remaining bombs targeted the infrastructure of the western US: water treatment plants, coal and nuclear power plants, and major railway lines were decimated.
The explosions immediately killed almost 10 million Americans, and the nuclear fallout claimed countless more lives over the decade since. Some immediately due to radiation poisoning, others died slowly of radiation-related diseases like cancer. The explosions also affected the weather of the Southwestern US, plunging most of Southern California, Arizona, and parts of New Mexico into a semi-permanent winter.
The sprawling suburbs of the West Coast were abandoned–residents forced from their homes with no electricity or running water. Small tent cities, teeming with suburban refugees, were built up in rural areas near sources of clean water. It was weeks before the government could even begin to send aid to the western third of the US. And when aid did come, there wasn’t enough. People were forced to band together to help themselves, and to begin to rebuild their lives.
Corporations immediately saw the devastation of the Western Third as a business opportunity. The entire west coast needed to be rebuilt. Commerce and transportation needed to be re-established, and new resources needed to be found. It was only a matter of months before the first company made itself rich by exploiting the destruction. Blanchard-Fieldings Corporation found deposits of rare earth minerals worth tens of billions of dollars near the area that used to be the city of Los Angeles. With no environmental concerns, and no government regulators bothering them, BF-Co began producing more rare earth minerals for cheaper than even countries like China could imagine.
BF-Co even installed its own form of pseudo-government. As the company rebuilt the infrastructure of the areas surrounding Los Angeles, they needed workers, and the refugees needed work. People volunteered to work for BF-Co in exchange for goods and services. Workers were assigned a home, and given access to food, water, and medical care. They were given rations for non-essential items, too, such as coffee, candy, cigarettes, and in some cases, even alcohol. Parents who worked for BF-Co could send their children to school with permission from the company. Indeed, a budding society started to take shape around the BF-Co work sites.
But just as these goods and services were given, they could also be taken away. Being docked rations was all too common at sites where workers were not producing well. The company maintained a delicate balance: Both reminding workers that they would not survive without BF-Co’s help, but also providing workers with enough compensation that they might overlook their dependence upon the company in favor of their relative comfort. But like many delicate balances, this one would not last forever.
irreverenture 