“Striking Sparks” — Page Sixty-Two
Women and children first!
Except that one of the women is a reporter who may be terrified but still refuses to leave the story of a lifetime. I like to think that she and Holbeck are having a furious squabble up there as he’s trying to get everyone down the zipline. You know how it goes. Assuming they both survive, they’ll probably end up dating.
Meanwhile, our hero is dead, damaged, scorched, smoking — and if that weren’t enough, it sounds like more trouble coming his way!
Oh, and hey! Turns out my agent’s assistant is one of our regular readers, so a big 3MM shout-out to Ed at the Dravis Agency! Because we all know who really runs the office, right?
Hope you had a great Valentine’s Day!
More below!
Bobservations
Battle of Wills
A few months ago, I discovered there was something living in my rosemary bushes, stealing the bread I’d been putting out for the squirrels. When I tried to investigate it made a spirited attempt to kill me, so I assumed it was a wolverine. Some effort and much blood (mine) later, it turned out to be a feral cat. A feral kitten, actually, although given how much damage it managed to inflict on me, I was surprised to learn that it was only six weeks old and weighed only slightly more than a pound.
Female, extremely scruffy, tortoiseshell-type. Vicious as hell. Exploded into hissing, spitting, scratching, biting fury every time I tried to approach. Naturally I could not have such a thing living in my bushes.
So I moved it into my office instead. Welding gloves are a great invention, let me tell you. Named her Shiva, after the Hindu God of Destruction.
Many vet bills and band-aids later, Shiva and I are still negotiating terms, but progress has been made. At least she has – for now – decided to let me live. She’s about six months old at this point and while she’s gained some weight, she’s still a scruffy alley-cat in appearance and probably always will be. I’m okay with that. At least she’s had all her shots now and been spayed, so I feel like even if she bolts out the door at some point and vanishes, I’ve done some good anyway.
And I’m getting an invaluable education in dealing with headstrong females with their own agenda who don’t want to be rescued unless it’s on their terms.
Kind of like the characters on this page. But at least I’m not a smoking heap of wreckage.
Yet. Shiva’s probably working on it. God forbid she figures out how to use my flamethrower.
— Bob out
They’re going to have to make a few trips to Home Depot to patch him up after this one…………………..
REALLY rough day at the office for old Max
Have him eating the firefighter’s sammich while he lays there!
‘Yet. Shiva’s probably working on it. God forbid she figures out how to use my flamethrower.’ = opportunity for the next vote incentive/donation art And a reason to get a low angle use out of the flame thrower too.
This isn’t a flamethrower, but it comes close. Your description of Shiva sounds lot like this.
https://laughingthroughthepain.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/crazy-cat.gif
Hahaha! Yeah, that’s about right.
I’m betting that he comes back into the lab without injuries. The teleporter brings back everything that it sent, and in the same position, right? So, all the damage he sustained while “out” will just disappear when he comes “back”.
Not with the Strike Gate. What gets sent comes back, but it doesn’t get repaired. If he’s shot, the bullet stays behind but he comes back with the hole, which promptly starts spurting blood once his heart starts beating again.
“If he’s shot, the bullet stays behind but he comes back with the hole, which promptly starts spurting blood once his heart starts beating again.”
Then it will be time for that new plunger plug for deep penetration wounds. It inserts and leaves behind a large number of compressed bandages/sponges, that have coagulants and anti-biotics in them. The blood is soaked up, and they expand, plugging the wound after the plunger applicator is withdrawn.
Good to know! I’ll add it to Doc Sharma’s toolkit.
Shiva sounds like my dad’s old orange tabbycat, Slash, who became Mr. Slash when he grew up. He was an awesome cat. He thought he was a dog, only better, because he could climb trees.
First thought: Shiva’s last name wouldn’t happen to be Greebo, would it?
Second thought: Of course not. If it was, Bob wouldn’t be here any more.
Third thought: What was the name of the cat that shreds goons in Zona?
And my last name would be Ogg.
(Prairie Son and I give each other Discworld high-fives while everyone else wonders what the hell we’re talking about.)
What the hell are you talking about?
I always wanted to be Rincewind, or the Librarian.
Ook.
The motorcycle arrives!
oh and trying to be the last one out of a burning building is a good way to be the first one dead who could have left.
I could swear I’ve heard a term for reporters deliberately putting themselves in harm’s way just for a story, but I can’t remember it now. Thought it was “Lois Lane Syndrome” but that turns out to be something quite different.
That term for megalomaniacal reporters risking others’ lives so they can look tough wouldn’t be Dan Rather syndrome, would it? He kept his job despite LBJ’s exit (he’d been presumed to have an in with Lyndon Bains, having graduated from a West Texas teachers’ college) by chaining himself to a telephone pole during a hurricane … no word on his poor cameramen who had to stand by and film him.