Continuing. After the third pony keg of beer was delivered, it was decided that the next few days would be spent in the conference room discussing what we thought was the best way forward.
We wanted dry-erase boards so we could start taking detailed notes, even though I was well ahead of the curve in that regard. We instead ended up with some mobile elementary-school blackboards and a pile of grainy, sooty chalk.
Leave it to Dr. Cliff to go into a discourse on the genesis of chalk and its economic importance.
Bloody carbonate geologists.
Bloody White Cliffs.
We geologists need to punctuate their conversations with pictures, so these would suffice quite well.
At 1700 hours, the official end to the workday was called; we’d meet here again tomorrow. I’m not certain by whom, but it was readily agreed upon. We were more or less on our own until 1000 the next day. I needed to spend some time in my room with my notes and update a number of dossiers, field notebooks, and other items I was using as a running chronicle.
Several folks decided to invade one of the hotel’s restaurants for dinner. Some wanted to head to the casino, a couple wanted to get a massage, and others wanted to do what tourists are normally wont to do on the second day of being a foreigner in a foreign land.
I declined invitations to dinner and other activities, as I had a long writing session in front of me. I wanted to get this all in its proper place while the memories and notes were still fresh.
30 minutes later, in my room after a 25-minute wait for the elevator; I’m updating dossiers, creating several new ones, and updating my field notebooks. Suddenly, after an hour’s work, I notice something is amiss.
“I don’t have a drink or a cigar,” I said to the four walls. “This. Will. Not. Do.”
I was used to Happy Hour in Russia. Happy hour is slightly different; there are no ice cubes or orange-peel twists in the vodka. Also, it lasts all day.
I remedy that situation by finding and clipping a nice, oily oscuro cigar and digging the bourbon out from under my boxer-briefs in my dresser drawer. I heft the bottle and feel that it’s significantly lighter than when I left it last night. I happen to look in the trash can and spy the wrapper for a box of my festively colored Sobranie cigarettes I obtained back in Dubai.
“Hmmm”, I think, “It would appear that we have some light-fingered Cho Louies or No Louises around here. I’d best guard my supplies a little more securely.”
I move all my smokeables into one of my now emptied aluminum travel cases. They lock with the stoutest of combinations and it will be readily apparent if anyone is fucking with them.
I move some of my best booze into the pretty much worthless in-room safe. With a deft application of duct tape, I seal the safe. It may not be the most secure spot on the planet, but if anyone tries anything troublesome, they’ll leave an immediately recognizable record of what they were up to. It’s just too obvious; they’d have to be crazy to go in after anything inside there.
My money, keys, and passports are in the safe deposit box down in the lobby that the hotel supplies for visiting dignitaries. Even so, they let me keep my shit in one of them anyway.
That handled, I spend another hour writing like a madman. I suddenly realize I’m tired of all this and need a diversion as well as some food and, of course, drink.
30 minutes later, I’m down in the byzantine basement tunnels of the hotel. It’s crowded with hordes of Chinse tourists, and the casino is ground zero for the incredibly loud chatter.
I look in on the bowling alleys all three of them, and they’re full. The massage parlor is hopping, although I leave my name and they promise they will call over the PA when a suitable masseuse is available. Evidently, I ‘intimidate’ some of the more demure ones.
I wander over to the bar, now there’s a surprise, and see it’s packed to the rafters as well. I decide to wait for a seat to open up on Mahogany Ridge when there’s some gargling over the PA and a pair of Chinese nationals leave the bar in great haste.
I grab one of the two newly open seats, much to the chagrin of a couple of Oriental Unidentifiables (OU) who had their eye on them as well.
“Sorry, mate”, I said, “First come, first served. It’s the capitalist way.”
One of the pair grabs a seat and the other just stands there, looking annoyed unspent bullets in my direction. Forget that I’ve literally twice their size and could be an aberration as an angry American. They just order a couple of drinks, and content themselves in giving me dirty looks and probably say nasty things in their own indecipherable language about my national origin and familial heritage.
As if I gave the tiniest of rodental shits.
I fire up a cigar, as literally everyone else in the joint was smoking something more or less tobacco. However, there was a definite barnyard aroma, a regular Dairy Air, in the room. I think some of what was being smoked there was more bovine or equine in origin than botanical in nature.
With numerous hilarious attempts at Korean, pointing at a garishly photographed drinks menu, I was finally served a cold draft house steam porter and 100 milliliters of probably ersatz ‘Russian’ vodka, vintage late last Thursday. This bartender that could at least form some of the phonemes found in American English. A few. A definite few.
Since it all cost the equivalent of US$0.50, I really didn’t care.
Apparently vodka helps flowers last longer when they're dying. But you can put vodka in anything and it'll make it better.
Being a trained observer, I rather enjoy just sitting in any old bar, smoking my cigar, drinking my Yorshch, and watching people. I try and not be intrusive and I never eavesdrop, but I like to try and think of what strange set of circumstances brought us all here together in this place at this time. It gives me writing ideas, some of which I jot down in a notebook I always carry. It also gives me a good shot of nostalgia when I look back at something I wrote some 40 or so years ago.
Yeah, old habits do die hard.
I take a drag off my cigar and set it in the ashtray in front of me on the bar as I go to correct another egregious misspelling in my notebook. I have to immediately proofread what I wrote, or I’d never recall later what the fuck I was trying to convey; especially if it’s in a noisy, smoky, or murky milieu.
Quicker than a bunny fucks, Unidentifiable Oriental #1 (UO #1) deftly reaches over, snags my cigar, and helps himself to a few mouthy puffs.
I look at him, the empty ashtray directly in front of me, him again, and then UO #2.
Since I speak no real Oriental, much less Korean, language, and my Mandarin at this point is worse than laughable; I just point to the cigar, turn out my hands and shrug my shoulders in the international “What the actual fuck, dude?” gesture.
He just smiles a gappy, toothy, and snaggle-toothed at that, grin at me and makes a point of ensuring that I see him enjoying a few more drags on my own damned cigar.
Not able to contain myself any further, I venture a “What the fuck, chuckles? That’s not your fucking cigar.”
Like gasoline being tossed on a fire-ring full of embers, they both go unconditionally incoherently insane.
Yammering, chattering, jumping up and down, and getting right into my face. They wanted me to unquestionably understand that my few words of English insulted them far more than their filching of my $20 cigar.
OK, I’m pretty well trained in Hapkido; an oddly, given the present situation, hybrid Korean martial art. I’m at least 6 or 7 inches taller and who knows how many stone/kilos/pounds/Solar masses heavier than these two clowns. I could easily go all Gojira on their hapless asses and mop significant expanses of the floorboards with them.
Instead, I look around for the bartender. I figured since I was keeping him well supplied with Korean won via tips, and he spoke some English as well as perhaps whatever the fuck these characters were chattering; maybe he could get to the bottom of what was happening.
The bartender walks over and I ask him to ask the two unidentifiable twins why they stole my cigar.
He nods in agreement and goes on in whatever the fuck dialect was being used today by the pair.
“They say they wanted it. So they took it.” They ask, “What are you going to do about it?” the bartender relates.
I deftly reach inside my field vest, as everyone concerned ducks and covers.
I extract two fresh cigars; not a .454 Casull Magnum.
I give one cigar to the bartender and one to OU#2.
“With my compliments.” I pleasantly say.
I was well apprised of the fact that in certain places like this, the local authorities often approach foreigners with, for the lack of a better term, ‘
Agents Provocateur’.
Like the Westboro Baptist “Church”, they try to get a rise out of you so you’ll lose your cool and either create a scene or take a poke at the miscreant. Then they have all the pretext they require to drag you to the local hoosegow, shake you down for every penny on your person, as well as any phones, notebooks, wallets, passports, cigars, cigarettes, etc.
Basically, they goad you into a fight, then drop the thousand-pound shit-hammer when you retaliate.
It’s all so parochial. So obviously clear as vodka; this elementary charade only raised a single eyebrow.
I’m not going to even raise my voice over a couple of cheap cigars that neither of them noticed I slipped them instead of the premium ones I was smoking.
Thus defeated, I asked the bartender to ask them if they liked the cigar.
“What do you think?” I asked in cordial English, “Too tightly rolled? Not caged enough? Too green?”
UO #2 slipped and said “It smells very good…” where he realizes he’s blown his cover.
“Yeah, I like it too.”, I replied, “So much so, I buy my own. What are your badge numbers, boys? I will be reporting this incident to Inspector P'aeng Yeong-Hwan, the head of security for the IUPGS conference to which I was invited as special scientific consultant.”
Of course, they immediately dummy up and feign illiteracy.
I say loudly and very clearly, “You bastards aren’t gonna get away with this. I mean, what is going on in this country when scumsuckers like you can get away with trying to sandbag a Doctor of Geological Sciences?”
I ask the bartender to translate, but alas, it was too late. They vamoosed when I turned to talk with the bartender.
They left so fast, they didn’t notice me snapping their pictures with my ancient but trusty Nokia 3310, revised edition, during our little chat. Even with a mere 2-megapixel picture, I have enough to show the North Korean leaders of the project to get an identification and make known my displeasure of being treated like some commoner or buffoon.
They left both my cigar and the one I gave them. The bartender tucked the cigar I gave him into his pocket and stared lustily at the two remaining on the bar.
“Take’em”, I said. I sure as fuck don’t want them. “Just a clean ashtray and a refill, if you would be so kind,” I say, as pleasantly as possible, considering the situation.
Both the unsmoked and my smoldering, as well as well-traveled, cigar disappear as quickly as minks rut. A clean, new ashtray, double beer and ‘vodka’ suddenly appear.
“No charge, Dr. Rock”, the bartender grins, as he shoves my erstwhile high-mileage cigar between his teeth.
“OK, fair enough.”, I say, “Spaseebah.”, and deposit a raft of won on the bar. The pile won’t be touched until after I leave in a few hours’ time.
“Stranger in a strange land.” I muse over a couple of further beers.
The call from the massage parlor never came, or it did and I couldn’t hear it over the clamor of the casino. I went up to the hotel’s Korean restaurant; had some salty soup, a sad, sad salad, and some form of funky fish, I think, for dinner. I retired that night in a slightly foul mood.
I called Es then the next morning and caught her before she retired. With a 14 hour difference between us, I was getting up at 0700 and she was getting ready to hit the hay at 2100.
I told her of the events of the day previous, and she was glad she wasn’t tagging along. She would have never accused the Korean geologists of being behind the times and would have probably bent the guy’s nose that swiped my cigar.
Agreed, that she’d probably be unimpressed with this place. I promised her that we’d go on a holiday when I returned from all this. It would be up to her to find out ‘where,’ and I’d supply the ‘when’ when I could.
Everything else was going along smoothly, more or less, on the home front, and I didn’t want to give the local listening-in
federales too much to say grace over, so we said our parting admirations and rang off.
Shower, shower sunriser of real vodka and citrus, a quick brush and comb, and spiff of cargo shorts and new ghastly Hawaiian shirt; 30 minutes later, back down in the restaurant for the inevitable breakfast buffet.
After what some would consider breakfast and others would consider a vague attempt at nourishment, we reconvened in the conference room precisely at 1012.
Nothing like precision with this group.
We spend the next two days going over, in various groups, what we think would be required to set forth proper the quest for oil and gas in North Korea on track. Everyone got in on the act, and we advocated for that. We needed everyone’s input to make this happen. Or to even map a way forward to present to country officials. Those from the West on what was needed and those from the East to tell us what was available, and the combined wetware to make what needed to be done happen with what existed.
It took no small amount of doing, but we secured a set of maps that covered the entire country. We were watched very closely by the shiny suit squad that we did not copy, photograph or otherwise take any extraneous information from these sheets of infamy. All other maps in the country were intentionally skewed, with errors deliberately added in to confuse “interlopers, spies, or other
personas non grata”.
I made a massive stink and told them that if we didn’t receive the unfuckered maps, aerial photographs and satellite imagery pronto, we’re packing up and leaving that afternoon.
“We don’t have time for monks resisting the carnival. We didn’t come here to try and guess if the maps are correct or if our remedies will actually work on maps that say one thing and reality says something else entirely.”
They hemmed and hawed, but as I made the announcement to all before lunch that if the real maps didn’t appear by the time we returned from tiffin, we’re gone.
And we take tiffin purty durn early round these parts, buckaroo.
No one was surprised as I when we returned and there were folio after folio of government-uncensored maps, photos, and imagery for our program. I guess they finally reasoned it would be a relatively good idea to begin to take us seriously.
We spent one whole day just going over our field geological apparatus. They had a good idea of how to use a direction-finder compass and Jacob’s staff to measure sections. However, they were totally flummoxed by our Brunton Compasses, GPS systems, curiously referred to as ‘position finders’, notebook mapping applications, and electronic data storage and retrieval systems.
Gad. It was like being back in the 1970s before PCs were a glimmer in IBM's corporate orbs.
We spent the next week working to bring our less fortunate colleagues up to, well, not date, but at least up to the brink of the 21st century. We explained that plate tectonics, continental drift, and the precession of the continents was accepted geoscientific principles, not some arcane Capitalist or Socialist plot to undermine the quality of science in the east.
Yep. It was that mindset we had to first conquer. I think we’ve made great headway in that direction today.
The next Chautauqua session had us split up into two separate groups. We decided in a fit of Cesarean inquiry to ‘divide and conquer’. There are two distinct
milieus which are able to contain economic deposits of hydrocarbons: onshore and offshore.
Instead of attacking both head-on, we’d focus initially on the offshore domain. Once we had a good handle on what was going on under the East Korean Sea, the Huangai (Yellow) Sea and surreptitiously, the South Sea; we’d collaborate our findings and work to tie them in and extend them onshore.
The singular Phyongnam Basin is the one large depositional, sedimentological, and structural basin in North Korea. It is filled by the Joeson and Pyeongan Supergroups of sediments, which are Cambro-Ordovician and Permocarboniferous, respectively. These are good hunting grounds for oil and gas. Could be
elephant–hunting country.
But before we could undertake that, we had to get ‘back to basics’. That is, we had to understand and delineate the ‘frame’ of the Korean Peninsula. In other words, we needed to figure out how and when the peninsula came into existence.
South Korea’s geology is much more complex, fortunately than that found in the North. There were nasty side comments that were due to the relative development not of the geology, but of the geologists who studied each country’s geology.
It was, perhaps, a mean way of characterizing the situation. But, unfortunately, it was also probably fairly accurate.
The Korean Peninsula is characterized by huge
massifs, which are sections of a crust that are demarcated by faults or flexures. In the movement of the crust, a massif tends to retain its internal structure while being displaced as a whole. The term also refers to a group of mountains formed by such a structure. It’s basically one huge, semi-resilient rock.
The basement rocks of the Korean Peninsula consist of high-grade gneiss and schist, Paleoproterozoic Precambrian massifs, which formed in the early stage of Earth’s history. These rocks are unconformably overlain by metasedimentary rocks; schist, quartzite, marble, calcsilicate, and amphibolite, of the Middle to Late Proterozoic. The Korean Peninsula is floored by a collation of about five of these huge Precambrian massifs that acted like ‘microplates’ during the aggregation of the peninsula. These massifs consist of thick dolostone, metavolcanics, and schist, which were intruded by Paleoproterozoic granites.
These Paleoproterozoic metasedimentary and granitic rocks underwent repeated intracrustal differentiation, followed by the events of cratonization, i.e., regional metamorphism and igneous activity, at 1.9-1.8 Ga. Sediments deposited in the peripheral basins during the Mesoproterozoic and Neoproterozoic lead to stabilization as the basement of the peninsula.
These early depositional basins formed the locus of deposition that continued on from the Proterozoic through the Phanerozoic. There are at least three, perhaps four, depositional basins in the south which are delimited by structural zones, such as the South Korean Tectonic Line (SKTL), a huge zone of continental transform faults and forms the basis of boundary demarcation between the Okcheon and Taebaeksan basins.
The boundary between the Seochangri Formation of the Okcheon Basin and the Joseon Supergroup of the Taebaeksan Basin in the Bonghwajae area is a thrust (or reverse‐slip shear zone). This thrust is presumably a relay structure (i.e. a restraining bend) between two segments of a continental transform fault (the South Korean Tectonic Line or SKTL), along which the Okcheon Basin of the South China Craton was juxtaposed against the Taebaeksan Basin of the North China Craton during the Permian–Triassic suturing of the two cratons.
In the late Proterozoic, sedimentation was initiated in basins of the Korean Peninsula, accompanied by deposition of siliciclastic and volcaniclastic sediments as well as carbonates. The massifs were submerged in the Early Paleozoic during a greenhouse period, forming a shallow marine platform and associated environments.
The Cambrian-Ordovician succession unconformably overlies Precambrian granite gneiss. It consists of mixed carbonate-siliciclastic rocks of sandstone, shale, and shallow-marine carbonates. Sedimentation was initiated in the Early Cambrian with a global rise in sea level on the stable craton of the Sino-Korean Block.
There was a major break in sedimentation during the Silurian and Devonian periods in the entire platform. During the Carboniferous to early Triassic, sedimentation was resumed in coastal plain and swamp environments with progradation of deltas.
Major tectonic events were initiated in the Triassic when the South China Block collided with the Sino-Korean Block. The eastern part of the Sino-Korean Block rotated clockwise and moved southward relative to the South China Block along the SKTL.
In the Middle-Late Jurassic, orthogonal subduction of the paleo-Pacific plate under the Asian continent caused compression and thrust deformation. A number of piggyback basins formed along the thrust faults in the east of the SKTL. At the same time, the entire peninsula was prevailed by granite batholiths, especially along the northeast-southwest-trending tectonic belt.
In the Cretaceous Period, the paleo-Pacific Plate subducted northward under the Asian continent, forming numerous extensional (left-lateral strike-slip) basins in the southern part of the peninsula and the Yellow Sea. A large back-arc basin was initiated in the southeastern part.
In the Paleogene, both the volcanic arc and the back-arc basin ceased to develop, as volcanic activities shifted eastward, accompanied by a rollback of the subduction of the Pacific plate. In the Miocene, pull-apart (right-lateral) basins formed in the eastern continental margin.
The Korea Plateau experienced continental rifting accompanied by extensive volcanism during the extensional opening of the southern offshore basin. It subsided more than 1000 m below sea level.
So, as South Korea was mix- mastered by a half-a-billion years’ worth of structural tectonism, which created several depositional basins quite capable of generating and storing economic quantities of oil and gas, the scene to the north was much more quiescent.
The North was composed, from south to north, of the relict Imjingang Belt, which was an old back-arc basin between the Gyeonggi Massif to the south and the Nagrim Massif to the north. It is a paleo-subduction zone, full of volcanics, volcaniclastics and other non-hydrocarbon bearing rocks. It was mashed and metamorphosed, and basically forms a convenient boundary between the complex geology of the South and the more relaxed geology of the North.
Heading north, we come across the Pyeongnam Basin, the only North Korean basin thus far defined that could contain hydrocarbons. Further north is the huge Nangrim Massif. It’s a huge block of igneous and metamorphic rocks that weather very nicely and form some spectacular scenery, but from an oil and gas economic outlook are worthless.
Offshore North Korea, there are two possible petroliferous basins. The offshore West Korea Bay Basin and East Sea Basin, along with five onshore basins could be offering exploration potential. At least ten exploration wells have been drilled in the West Sea, with some showing “good oil shows” along with the identification of a number of potential reservoirs.
The West Sea potentially has oil and has reportedly flowed oil at reasonable rates from at least two exploration wells when they were drilled and tested in the 1980s. Meanwhile, the East Sea has seen Russian exploration efforts previously including the drilling of two wells, both of which reportedly encountered encouraging shows of oil and gas.
Onshore, there has been little exploration to date, apart from efforts by the Korean Oil Exploration Corporation and also recently by Mongolia’s HBOil JSC (HBO). Among five main onshore sedimentary sub-basins, the largest is south of the capital; while unconfirmed reports point to a 1-trillion-cubic-foot (tcf) discovery in 2002.
Historically DPRK was thought to consist of five under-explored geological basins, the
• Pyongyang,
• Zaeryong,
• Anju-Onchon,
• Gilju-Myongchon and
• Sinuiju, Basins.
These basins are all located more or less along the coast, rather than inland. This also points to a certain degree of geological aptitude; as it’s much easier to explore along the more populated coast than it is to venture inland. There may be more hiding in the interior of the country, it’s just that no one’s looked as of yet. That’s difficult. Exploring along the coast is much easier.
With 3 basins supposedly proven to have working petroleum systems; 22 wells have been drilled and the majority are said to have encountered hydrocarbons with some wells testing production at 75 barrels of oil per day of light sweet crude oil. This has yet to be documented or confirmed by the Korea Oil Exploration Corp (KOEC), North Korea’s state-run oil company.
Yeah, our work was definitely cut out for us.
It was decided that a series of excursions offshore in one of the few remaining seaworthy, which was a real judgment call, KOEC seismic boats would be appropriate. The one we received use of was an old, decommissioned Chamsuri-class patrol boat, one Chamsuri-215(참수리-215), PKMR-215 in particular.
It had been basically stripped to the gunwales and completely retrofitted as a seismic acquisition and recording vessel. It had been renamed: “조선 민주주의 인민 공화국 영광” or “Glory of Democratic People's Republic of Korea Science”.
In reality, it was an aging rust-bucket piece of shit that might have possibly seen better days but wasn’t letting on. All the military nonsense, except the powder magazine, had been removed and a new superstructure consisting of slap-dash hunks of poorly-welded low-carbon, cold-rolled steel were erected to form a pilothouse in the area where the bridge once existed. They also built, extra haphazardly, a shooter’s room, galley, cold and wet storage areas, recording room, and storage of tapes and the extra bits and pieces needed for a none-too-extended stay on the sea. It was, being charitable, almost utilitarian.
They could not make their own water, so trip times were limited to about three days in length. Besides, they didn’t really have a hot galley, so it was cold, canned Chinese chow for the next 72 hours. They had a couple of fairly sturdy yardarms with heavy winches to handle the towed seismic arrays of geophones, which were of ancient heritage and showed it. These were probably appropriated back in the 80s or perhaps earlier when they first thought about opening their waters for seismic exploration.
They ‘borrowed’ most of the sensing and recording equipment back then from oilfield service companies and simply forgot to return it once finished. Since they burned that bridge so glowingly, they couldn’t get parts nor service when things failed. Being delicate seismic sensing and recording equipment, fail they did.
So, we had to use what was leftover, or what DPRK industries could cobble together, or what could be salvaged from salt-water drenched recording equipment that hadn’t been too heavily cared for over the span of the last 50 years.
We weren’t terribly optimistic.
So, we load the good ship ‘Rorrypop’, as Viv christened the thing, and head out to the wilds of the Yellow Sea. It was an abbreviated foreign crew, as there was really nothing other than upchuck and curse me soundly for insisting the non-geophysical scientists came along.
Aboard were the two geophysicists, naturally; Volna and Activ. I was there stick-handling the logistics and hoping to help out with the geophysical signal source explosives.
Morse and Cliff, the two other geologists accompanied us on the trip, and Dax decided to go with me as he figured I’d have access to the best booze no matter where we went.
The remainder of the team, the geochemists, Erlan and Ivan, the geomechanic, Iskren, the PT, Joon, and the two REs, Viv and Grako, remained behind onshore at the hotel. They set forth cataloging what data was available; from what sources, it’s vintage, veracity, and usefulness.
Augean tasks, both. Not as fecaliferous as Hercules’ jobs, but still, they held their own rations of shit for each sub-team.
Heading seaward, the Yellow Sea extends by about 960 km (600 mi) from north to south and about 700 km (430 mi) from east to west; it has an area of approximately 380,000 km
2 (150,000 mi
2) and a volume of about 17,000 km
3 (4,100 mi
3).[4] Its depth is only 44 m (144 ft) on average, with a maximum of 152 m (499 ft). The sea is a flooded section of the continental shelf that formed during the Late Pleistocene (some 10,000 years ago) as sea levels rose 120 m (390 ft) to their current levels. The depth gradually increases from north to south. The sea bottom and shores are dominated by sand and silt brought by the rivers through the Bohai Sea and the Yalu River. These deposits, together with sand storms are responsible for the yellowish color of the water referenced in the sea's name.
Being shallow, the Yellow Sea is more perturbed by the frequent seasonal storms of the region. The area has cold, dry winters with strong northerly monsoons blowing from late November to April. I was told that the summers are wet and warm with frequent typhoons between June and October; but now all we had to contend with were swelling seas, spraying saltwater, waggling waves, and a shivering, shimmying ship.
All the navigation, communications and other shiply duties were being handled by both members of the DPRK Coast Guard Auxiliary, mostly older guys who were of great and high humorous jest; and an actual pleasure to be around. They were like their scientific cadre on this cruise, basically a political ‘give a shit’ attitude, and a desire to get the job done, smoke the American’s cigars and drink as much as we could get away with.
The scientific portion of the cruise was being undertaken by students of the various universities and members of the North Korean national oil company. The demeanors of these characters ranged from extremely earnest and stringently North Korean politically correct in the students and academicians, to a more relaxed ‘yeah, let’s just get the fucking job done so we can have a lot of drinks’ sort of view of the older members of the DPRK scientific team.
It was a fun admixture of cultures, ages, professions, and behaviors.
Oh, forgive me for forgetting to mention our ‘guides’, or handlers. They were also chosen, nay, ordered to come along. Landlubbers all, they were less than thrilled with the assignment and inevitable seasickness; which seemed endemic to those of Oriental extraction on the cruise. However, our guides did enjoy drinking. As we learned that alcohol is a central part of Korean culture, and they encouraged us to socialize with them when the time was appropriate.
Or, not appropriate, as I was being denounced by one of the geophysical students after only a few hours into our very first day. Hell, we weren’t even in the Yellow Sea proper. We started here at Pyongyang, down the Taedong River, over the Giva Dam, through Pushover, across Shmoeland, to the stronghold of Shmoe; into the very belly of the frothing Yellow Sea.
Most everyone, other than the foreign elements on board, were either making the trip in the bowels of the ship; nursing and cursing seasickness; or by rail, doing exactly the same thing.
“Chum it over the side, ya’ blinkered mucker!”, I admonished one bottle-greenish national. “This ain’t the Captain‘s mess, Chuckles.
You have to clean up your own spew!”
I was reveling in getting back out on the water and regaining my sea legs. I
never get seasick.
Never.
Ever.
Be it a seismic vessel in the heaving Arctic Ocean, a pirogue in the swamps of Louisiana, my cousin’s fishin’ johnboat back in northern Baja Canada, a US nuclear submarine under the permanent pack ice of the North Pole, or VLCC in the Straits of Somaliland; I just don’t get seasick.
Airsick? Nah. Carsick? Nope. Ready to puke in a Hind-20 over the Caspian Sea during a strong local thunderstorm? Close, but no cigar.
So, I’m doing a Titanic scene recreation. Up in the very bow of the craft, standing in stark defiance of the gusting winds and blowing salt spray, smoking a huge cigar, and totting out of one of my emergency flasks while trying to hang on to my Stetson. I am also endeavoring to remain upright, field vest and really, really ghastly Hawaiian shirt billowing in the breeze.
I’m not certain if it was the cigar smoke, the wind-whipped beard, and hair, the give a fuck attitude, or the flapping of the Hawaiian shirt to which the little local geophysicist objected. But he was
pissed. Olive-green with seasickness, rubber-kneed but still standing a good social-distance away, reading me the riot act in high-pitched Korean.
As I usually do in such delicate situations, I just smile and wave. Show them I’m mostly harmless and they either cool down or get pissed off even more and stomp off in disgust.
Either one was a winning situation for me in my book.
So, I return to doing my ship’s figurehead imitation and revel in the wind, spray, and feeling of really being booming. Sure, some might complain of the cold, but not me, the sting of the salt-spray or the windburn; but I eschew what most people enjoy as ‘normal weather’. I live for pushing the boundaries. I love rough weather and situations that thrust the edge of the envelope further past normalcy.
Besides, we were still in sight of land. Hell, if everything went south at this very minute, one could practically walk back to shore. I can hardly wait to see what these wigglers will do if a night storm comes up when were 100 or more kilometers from land.
The boat’s thrumming heavily from both the thrust of the Soviet-era diesel engines and the craft’s bludgeoning its way through the waves. Most hull designs are so the ship will ‘cut’ through the surface waters. This craft’s flattened trihedral hull design didn’t so much ‘cut’, as ‘slam’ it’s way through. The boat would then crash up one side and smash down the other of each large wave we encountered. The boat would shudder whole, adding a new note of resonance along with the monotonous one-note song of the aged Russian diesels.
The spray would fly, the boat would convulse, time would seem to freeze until we bashed into the next wave. The captain of the vessel took his orders very seriously. “Get to coordinates
XXX and
YYY by the most expedient means possible.” If that meant charging, full-throttle into the teeth of the oncoming monsoon-force wind while we were traversing the worst kelp jungle I’ve seen this side of the Sargasso Sea; well, piss on it, full steam ahead.
“Fuck it”, I thought, “Not my pony, not my show. Let’s see how this plays out.” While I light a new cigar and search for Emergency Flask #2.
After I’d been upbraided by the geophysical student for transgressions still unknown, Cliff and Dax wander out to ask me what the hell I was up to.
“Have you gone completely barmy?”, Cliff asked. “It’s a full gale out here and you’re standing in the teeth of it like it was a warm, sunny Sunday in Piccadilly.”
“Nope, not at all”, I replied, “Just reveling in the delights of an angry atmosphere.”
“He’s nuts, I told you”, Dax smirked, “He’d go anywhere and do anything to have a cigar.”
“Not just a cigar, me old mucker”, I smiled and waved my second emergency flack under his nose.
“Figures”, they both respond in unison.
Dax departs and returns mere seconds later with paper Dixie-style cups he liberated from the ship’s one head. We are going to do our very best to extend the lifetime of the onboard water supply for our scientific and military friends. I pour them each a cup full.
“Whoa, Doc”, that’s gotta be 100 milliliters!” Cliff objects.
“As the Siberian saying goes: One hundred versts, roughly a hundred miles, is no distance. A hundred rubles isn't worthwhile money. And a hundred grams of vodka just makes you thirsty. Prosit!” I say in reply.
We retire to the overhang on the fantail of the boat. It’s a sunshade and keeps the worst of the weather out for the lightweights on the cruise. I decided we’d withdraw there to keep these Dominionites out of the worst of the wind and sea spray.
“Rock”, Cliff notes, “You are a complete throwback. You do not belong here in the 21st century. You need to find a way back to the Calabrian and ride herd on the continental Neanderthals. Give them the gift of distilling and tobacco agriculture, and you’d reframe the world.”
Dax agrees, but notes if I do find a way back, he and Cliff would be selected against.
“Good point”, Cliff agrees. “Rock, stay here. We need your expertise now more than ever. Plus your ready supply of strong drink and cigars.”
“Glad to know that I’m truly appreciated around these parts.” I chuckled slightly acridly.
“Ah, Rock. Buck up. You know we’re only takin’ a piss.” Cliff says.
“Aim it starboard. Don’t want it blowin’ all over the seismic gear”, I reply, laughingly.
The trip continued, and I found a not-bolted-to-the-deck chair and moved it outside under the shade back by the boat’s fantail. I refreshed my emergency flasks and replenished my cigar supply. I’m not about to sit inside and listen to the wails and gnashing of teeth of the landlubber crowd, the patter and timor of the geophysical throng as they titter and argue about array design, nor the military hut-hutting all over the fucking boat.
A couple of times, one or more of our ‘handlers’ would venture out as I had the only supply of readily available smokeables and drinkables. Oh, we had food, lots of beer, soju, some knock-off vodka, and some of that
faux homebrew bourbon for later once the workday was declared over; but for now, I was the one and only dispensary.
We’d have some random chats while they screwed up their courage to ask me for a smoke or a tot of drink. I brought several bundles of really cheap-ass cigars for just such occasions; besides, I figured one of my Camacho triple-maduros would have them chumming for the remainder of the trip. I had also many, many cartons of Sobranie pastel-colored cigarettes, and many more cartons of knock-off Marlboros I bought at the duty-free when we hit town.
It was chucklingly funny to see these harsh, military, no-nonsense characters walking their duty beats smoking pastel green, lavender, and mauve cigarettes.
We got bogged down a couple of times when one or more of the ship’s twin screws fouled with kelp as we tried to put some distance between us and the shore. Each time, one really dejected low-ranking young Coast Guard character would go over the side with a rope around his waist and a knife in his hand to free the props. I was going to object as this was moronically dangerous; but, again, not my pony, not my show. This called for full proper tethering and SCUBA gear.
They had neither aboard.
Welcome to the wonders of a centrally planned economy.
To be continued. submitted by This is my first time posting on reddit ever so please be kind. I never really felt the urge to post and mostly saw everyone's posts on here and really resonated with everyone's posts. I have never had a guest get under my skin but last night a guest finally did and I kind of needed to vent. Any feedback would be appreciated.
I am a supervisor at a property in Las Vegas. We will call it Night Inn for discretion's sake. It is 2 star property with a casino in it and it alright for what it is but I like working there. I have handled many guests with many of our clientele being of the night life kind, truckers and people who are looking to experience Vegas without needing the bells and whistles to enjoy it.
I always look to make a connection with the guests and get to know them. This was how I was trained and fairly often it is sighted as the reason people remember me. The property is fairly dated and smells heavily of smoke. To add to this we have $100 security deposit and a $18.13 resort fee people often times don't want to pay. This often times lead to understandably irritable guests that we have to have to please. This will include making jokes, answering questions, offering suggestions (much like a concierges as we do not have one), and many other things. I was born in the south (Louisiana) and was raised on a southern upbringing and I end up doing this as if it was second nature.
The night was very busy as always but it started to wind down. A young man and his father walked in to get their rooms for the night. I cracked a joke to lighten the mood which seemed alright and they started the check in process by handing me a paper from a third party company. I took it, the younger man's credit card and their ID's and started the process while I started using my southern charm. Things took a turn when I informed them when I asked for the $100 deposit per room totaling $200. The younger gentleman expression changed.
He angrily said "That's bullshit, show me where it says that and I will pay it". I then proceed to take the paper from the third party and flip it over and politely circle the portion saying it. He angrily starts to fish out his wallet for his other credit card saying that it would not be able to cover it. I then shortly there after had to break the news to him that our motel style room was booked to capacity and with how late they were checking in the rooms would be close but not next to each other. One would be on top of the other essentially but close to a staircase. This again angered him.
His father then took over and attempted to take care of it and said he would cover it. I explained to him how it worked and it explained in detail that he would get the money back. After it seemed like the mood had lighten I addressed the dad and asked what brought them to Vegas. He starts saying that they were passing through and going to a wedding to which his son was getting married. (Not the one checking in) I proceed to ask a couple of more general questions just to keep it going till it came time to be finished. I handed the keys to them and they left and I figured that would be the end of it.
5 minutes later they both show up and say the keys are not working. This is a common occurrence as our keys are very confusing for every guest and it happens often. I asked the guest if he put it in a certain way showing the wrong way to put them in. He adamantly proclaimed "Yes!". I politely explained that it is a common occurrence and showed him that it goes the other way. Before I even got to finish my sentence he started getting defensive. To head it off I explained that I had no problem resetting his keys, however, and that I would have our casino security escort him and help him and his dad to the room. I also told him to keep it away from phones and electronic devices and as well as magnetic pieces as this could wipe them. He took them and politely I introduced him to my officer and sent them on their way. Again this is common and I was fine was this.
As I began to start straightening up my bucket from the busy night he comes back up and I gave a puzzled look. I asked if everything alright at which point he said that it was but that he wants to talk to my manager. At this point I am dumbstruck. He begins to grill me and I am filled with questions. I explain to him that both the HM and the AHM have left for the night and the Casino Manager On Duty would be the one to answer his questions. He then starts saying that I purposely broke his keys (not possible with saflok) as they did not work the first time then they worked when my security guard helped him thinking I sabotage him. He then asked if I had seen his shirt. This is where things take a turn.
He then prominently points out that he is a GM of the resort prominently displayed on his shirt and says that if I had done this at his property I would have been fired. He says that I was asking very invasive questions about my guests. (This being the first time I have ever been told that) I told him that it was the way I was trained and that I was from Louisiana and that is how I was raised. He then tells me that he is from West Virginia and that he is more southern then me and that this is not how southern people are. This befuddles me to say the least. He then asks if I sabotaged his keys. I said "I don't believe so". This is mostly because nothing in this world is ever guaranteed in my book but I can promise you I didn't. He proceeds to take this as evidence that I did and proceeds to berate me about it. I finally had to radio my manager asking for his location because if I stuck around any longer I am not sure what may have slipped out. When my manager showed up and slipped to the back and had to cool off. This is a first for me to be honest. I have been frustrated or annoyed with guests sure but this was something different.
Edit: As to give more of the aftermath as to not leave you all hanging I wanted to give you an edit. The manager I have is a cool guy who has an old big burly biker appearance (also did security for Harley Davidson for years) who knows my demeanor as well as as heard many other people's satisfactory reviews of my service. He knows first hand how I treat my guests and knows how I operate even though he is casino and I am in the hotel.
While I am in the back and cooling down I can hear them talking and the young guy meets him and is slightly taken back by his appearance. He treads a little lighter but continues his list of grievances. He skips the part with the keys completely and only talks about the check in portion. The manager just seems to listen and says that he has heard the complaints and discipline me accordingly.
After the patron leaves he slips back to talk to me. I spring up from my chair and before I can say anything he chuckles. He starts cracking jokes with me and starts cooling me off completely. He then says that he isn't going to discipline me and he knows the guy was blowing smoke up his (explicitive) and to just write a report to my official managers so that in case anything does come of it they would know. When I followed up with my managers the next day they knew nothing of it.
submitted by Henry Collins was just a freshman from the University of Chicago when he committed suicide. Before he died, he was under a lot of pressure from his family, his friends, his girlfriend, his professors, his therapist, his guardian angel (yes, he was a devout Roman Catholic), his acquaintances, his guidance counselor, his lawyer, the person he was supposed to give his next year dorm payment to, his Spanish teacher, the entire registry office of his college, the dean of his college, the people following his YouTube account, the people following his Instagram account… The list goes on. But I’ll leave it at that for the meantime. I have been granted the duty of offering a biographical testimony as to what happened in Henry’s life before the nightmare known as PayPal whipped him into domestication and turned him into the laughing stock of their board meetings, but also a central heated topic of debate between clients, stockbrokers, interns, managers, assistants, executives, and secretaries.One of these interns, an SSRI-fiend named Cody Williams, whose bags under his eyes seemed to represent his volatile mental state, said that “the story of Henry Collin’s life gave mine meaning. We were always excited what would happen to him next. I always thought he was elect-from-God to experience this pain to sort of purify the human race of it’s sins.
In other words, he was a Messianic figure, but in a way that sort of turns our sadness and grief into amusement at his expense.” The razzmatazz began when Henry’s father decided to send a large amount of funds so that he could pay off the fee for his housing next year. He had then been living in a not so shabby perhaps even exclusive domicile where he spent most of his days doing what a regular college student usually did: study, sleep, have a coffee, write things in his diary, pray to God, talk to his friends, play football, scroll through his Facebook feed, after he was done scrolling through his Facebook feed he would then scroll his Twitter feed…There was an obligatory urgency as to which he did these things, he wouldn’t consider them a part of his routine, but he knew from then on there was an ominous deterministic element he had cruelly been subjected to.
He didn’t know where that ominous feeling came from, in fact, he knew he should probably to talk to his therapist Lily about it but he hesitated. Lily, despite all her charming good looks, had always presented him with the most artificial solutions to problems. Lily presented her solutions in a way that made it seem like she was ‘troubleshooting’ Henry’s problems. In other words, she wasn’t very original, and sometimes Henry suspected she would Google some of the issues Henry was dealing with to see if other therapists might have encountered similar problems.Of course, this might’ve just been a symptom of that monkey in Henry’s back; the one which would whisper that cruel word: determinism. Henry had an anthropology teacher which went on and on about it, and it was partially the reason he had stopped attending most of the classes. He talked to his therapist about his fear and she diagnosed Henry with autism. “I don’t think you can express your emotions very well, therefore we can now conclude you’re autistic.”
When the diagnosis came back to Henry’s father, he was furious and decided that was the last time Henry would see that therapist ever again. He asked for a refund to which she replied: “Settle that with my lawyer.” This would be the first of many injustices in Henry’s life.Henry believed he had a fear of lacking free will, and he believed the fear controlled him at a physiological level. Even though he was a devout Catholic, he was also a doubting thomas. He had started reading about the Scurvhamites which he blamed Thomas Pynchon for introducing him to. Eternal death was reserved to those who didn’t accept the doctrine. He had thought about converting but just chalked his skepticism as being part of ‘the fear’. When ‘the fear’ came, it would make his teeth grind, and his pores would sweat blood like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsamane. What lay deep beneath his unconscious processes… Oh, I feel almost guilty for using that phrase… Once you said the word ‘unconscious’ he would do a double take and start heaving like an asthmatic. Besides these eccentric conditions, he was a good kid.One serene Tuesday he received a notification from PayPal saying that they had froze his account. During this point in his life, Henry had been on medication prescribed to him by his new therapist, a man named Dr. John, or as he was known in the streets, ‘the gris gris man’. Before I go in depth about the PayPal notification, it is necessary to discuss the relationship between Henry and the gris gris man. Dr. John had taught Henry the art of self-medication, and bestowed him his own street name - ‘The Night Tripper.’
Henry felt a figuratively sacred aura about his newly appointed name. This is where he also was introduced to New Orleans voodoo - a deterministic move which might have just sealed his non-Scurvhamitic fate.In the sweaty bayous of Louisiana, Dr. John’s eyes would dilate; and in a Delphic trance he would speak in tongues to poor old Henry, who suddenly started to become fascinated with the gris gris merchant. Dr. John said he was an interesting patient with a sad fate, and he wasn’t far off. The thing is Henry wasn’t the same when he turned into the Night Tripper. He became removed and distant. His girlfriend would often grow worried since he wouldn’t reply to her texts. She suspected there were other women in Henry’s life. But the truth was Henry was merely under the gris gris man’s effervescent spell.One night, Dr. John called Henry on FaceTime to his surprise. “You did something embarrassing a while ago.” said the doctor. Henry; under the influence of psilocybin and jimson weed he had obtain from a client of the doctor’s, started to grow confused, his search for self-discovery had been halted. The ‘fear’ bubbled in his chest and sizzled, and then with every progressing gnawing instant, he realized the fear became associated with a burning flame - like the symbol of the Holy Ghost. It hit him - he had finally understood what his schizophrenic uncle had meant when he asked many years ago why he had stopped painting: “The fire…” He said. And that was all he said. Dr. John seemed amused with Henry. “Take care of yourself.” he said, but Henry didn’t know if he meant it or not, he didn’t know if the doctor was simply cunning or doing his trademark business of mystification or speaking incomprehensibly or sincerely being understanding to Henry’s condition.
Henry didn’t think he was ever meant to understand the gris gris man’s motives. “There is no touch. Why is no one touching me? I’m so lonely…” muttered Henry to himself. He lay there on his bed, trapped inside his four-by-four cell in the dead of the night, with no words of his consolation from his parents; who were asleep. Or from his girlfriend; who was also sleep. Henry didn’t want to risk calling her and telling her about the concoction the doctor had cooked up for him. No. That was a huge no no. A shiver arcs it’s way down the crevices of his spine. He needs to figure out if the world is real now. Nobody can help him do that.The following morning he awoke groggy from the night before. He resumed his daily responsibilities, such as fixing his blog, writing papers for school, and going to class discussions. In the afternoon, he resumed his reading of ‘The Magus’ by John Fowles, drawing parallels from the rich hypnotist/mastermind of illusions Maurice Conchis to the gris gris man, except he understood that Conchis was more precise and surgical with his psychological diagnostics, and the narrator, a rather intellectual but excessively promiscuous character, had been the victim. He is psychoanalytically defined as having a ‘partially resolved Oedipal complex, where the initial loss of maternal protection due to an authoritarian relationship with his father lead him to develop unhealthy coping mechanisms such as adopting the whole ‘rebel without a cause’ image, and also seeking out isolation as a means for his sexual predatory exploits and also situations where he must be ‘forced to rebel’.”
But this act of rebellion is a castrated one wherein the narrator (Nicholas Urfe) is compared to a ‘drone’ which lacks the innovation or the creativity to justify said rebellion.Henry’s father that day had been frustrated with him since the funds which were stuck in his PayPal account were frozen, and he was told that he wasn’t assertive enough to properly deal with the situation independently. This was a big blow to Henry’s ego. He knew there were other ways of dealing with the situation, but then he realized that perhaps his desire for handling the situation differently was just his own way of avoiding that lack of assertiveness. He often has thoughts of being emasculated by his peers, his brother, and his father. This probably would later contribute to a stasis he would soon fall under the influence of; a stasis of seesawing sexuality, and one that would make him undefinable to his peers. He knew little about his peers aside from the fact that they drank, smoked, and capitalized on college girls with low self-esteem. Henry also received an email later that day. It was from PayPal. “I regret to inform you that we can not accept the proof of address provided because no issue date appears on it. Provide us with a document that shows a date of issue. We accept a copy of the following documents:-Invoices for public services (landline and mobile phone, medical insurance, gas, water, electricity, etc.) -Bank or card statements -Working life report- Certificate or registration-Hard copy of the payroll
We do not accept: -Commercial bills -Partial documents Note: The document must include your full name and address as they are registered in your PayPal account. The document must show the date of issue, which must be more than 12 months old and must be legible in its entirety.” Henry didn’t think of this email as that of a big deal.
He was just sloppy enough to grab the nearest bank envelope on his desk and take a picture of the bank letter - thinking this passed as a ‘bank/card statement’. Obviously, the date of issue was necessary, so he opened his desk drawer and looked for a thick brown envelope which had his bank contract inside. He skimmed through a couple pages of terms of service jargon and took a picture of a page which had his address, the date of issue, and his full name. He then uploaded the picture to his PayPal account so that whoever was responsible of moderating personal documents could verify it.“Neurotics and lunatics…” he thought, thinking he ought to write a story about their anal fascination of detail. But then he realized how awful that sounded, he had written thousands of lines filled with words before, now his ideas were like frenetic flies that would flee once you tried to swat at them, he thought about those lines… An absurd fascination for the cryptic and absurd. He remembered again Nicholas Urfe’s diagnosis - “The normal cultural life pattern of the type: excessive respect for iconoclastic avant-garde art, contempt for tradition, paranosic sympathy with fellow rebels and nonconformers in conflict with frequent depressive and persecutory phases in work and personal relationships.”
He entertained the idea of the sadistic researchers in the novel as being entities of his subconscious manifesting themselves through text, as if he had stumbled upon someone’s own intimate personal secret. One of the characters in his past stories was a lunatic gunman who was ravaged by an innate love for his biographer; who happened to be a narcissist obsessed with coming up with the rawest, most visceral revelation of the human character known to man. But the underlying irony of it all stuck out like a sore thumb. He had the unique idea of having the gunman speak in aphorisms, while the biographer clings zealously to the sheer beauty of the fragmentary figments of the gunman’s imagination.He also began experimenting with a technique known as ‘surface realism’, which was a way of playing tricks on the reader by leading them to think that a fragment or portion of the story consists almost exclusively of the real, and these portions have the power to imprison reality within their concrete and seemingly absolute descriptions.
But then the reader learns that there are actually multiple mythical realities, but these are myths disguised as reality from the surface, and this is emphasized by the matter-of-fact description of the narrator, which gives the reader the sense that he or she is potentially not of a lucid state of mind, or perhaps even that there is a truth which the narrator hasn’t managed to fully grasp, and maybe not even a truth, but a subliminal detail.One ought to take advantage of discrepancies between what the reader is capable of assuming and trace the discrepancies to form an anamorphic image. Since the plot is a living thing; an organism that is conscious and breathes. We must assume that these discrepancies are actually connected like the organs of a body. The reliability of the narrative fixation on the real or the imaginary - which can also be said to represent another aspect of reality, is essential in setting the tone of the hazy infinities of surface realism. Also, the question of whether surface realism is a satirical label or not is a prime example of this unexplored genre. It is as they say - “The social chameleon of literary genres. ”Besides narration, there is also the unreliability presented by the idiosyncrasies and state of mind of the character, the reader must simply approach the text at face value in order for the fantasy to begin, there is a time where genius must become extinct and parasitic (in the sense of convolution and clicheness), allegories must defy reality completely and shit on the painfully mundane.
Novelty will always establish and constitute its own respectable domain. The gris gris man had once said that the tendency to resolve ambiguities and textual inconsistencies by scholars only ensure confusion, the reader is lead into a room filled with mirrors and mirrors reflecting complexity - but complexity is entropy - and entropy is indirect information.He had made it very clear that information was the plaything of the mind, a product of its dialed fine tuning, processing quantum bits and collapsing wave functions… Some believe the reader absorbs more by actively taking part in the novel and playing an invisible role; that of the spectator. “Without being aware of it the reader can relate in a humanistic level based on his or her own limitations to the norms of the characters. When such a symbiosis takes place, distinct similarities are observed between one’s identity and that of the roles the characters actively take part in. There is richness and substance to be found in ambiguity and perhaps even subdued interpretations, for what we overlook at face value when we fail to grasp the innate simplicity of complexity, is a mirror attempting to reflect infinity in a nutshell. This may all sound very understandably delusional. Yet in delusion - there is that profoundness; that superfluousness of perception.
But let’s get back to Henry’s problems; one of them being meeting Dr. John in the bar of a casino downtown from where he lived. It was the dead of the afternoon and this was the time security would come and patrol; usually on the lookout for the gris gris man himself, having been previously convicted of vehicle theft, assault, public nudity, and the alleged abduction of a teenage bartender. Although, one reporter claims that the abduction barely fazed the regulars in the Smokey Joe Tavern. Why? Well, according to one of those present during the scene of the crime, the disinterested chatter persisted when a frantic struggle was occurring somewhere in the kitchen, there were plates crashing on the floor, trays, utensils… and then the sound of incomprehensible machinery humming, affirming the futility of everyone around to even be bothered enough to call the cops until about an hour later. I think it was the manager who came around that time too asking where his bartender was. When the news broke that he was abducted, he couldn’t fathom why the crowd were so unconcerned, maybe they were just drunk… he must’ve thought. He slept a few hours that night, disgusted with himself, he called his doctor up to sedate him and he was given a couple Halcion.
He woke up the next morning with a recurring bout of constipation that persisted all throughout the day, and the afternoon memory haze, probably due to the sedatives, had prevented him from recalling the name he was given by one of the bar hounds. And then he realized he hadn’t even cared to recall names from ten years ago, from his high school, they were dead ends of broken memories, cotton buds already nipped. At least once or twice these apparitions of thought would resurface, it was a residue of his youth perhaps, maybe he was sapped and finally overwhelmed by the present. While dancing with the weightlessness, the buoyancy of youth, and the remnants of its wonderful feasts, he ought to bear that mask to forget about the weight of a lifetime pulling him toward the waiting room.The waiting room was a terrible place. A place where Dr. John brought most of the men and women he abducted. From bars, hotels, motels, bus stops, kiosks, beaches... Little did Henry know he was about to be lead there himself, he was already briefly straddling between two worlds; the insidious cancer inside and the tea-softened biscuit bones outside.
Chapter 2 -- coming never.
submitted by An Acadiana legislator is renewing his push Tuesday to forbid smoking in bars, casinos and sports arenas. Louisiana bars, casinos, sports arenas could be smoke free if this bill passes Louisiana’s 16 casinos and nearly 200 truck-stop video poker outlets are currently open at 50 percent building capacity, with the ability to fill up to 75 percent of the space’s gambling seats. Most allow smoking, as long as they are located in parishes and cities where a smoking ban doesn’t apply to them. “ The Casino is quite large, besides slot machines and table games in the Casino proper, there are also three restaurants, including the daily buffet, which is always good, and if you are 55 or older, you are charge... The smoking status of casinos can have a significant impact on the health of a community since they often serve such a central role as both a workplace and gathering place in the community. There is no safe level of exposure to secondhand smoke. Casino smoking areas, smoking rooms, and ventilation systems do not address the health hazards. As of June 1, 2018, the state of Louisiana has passed a new bill stating it is illegal on a statewide basis to smoke in bars, sports arenas, and casinos. A previous ordinance in 2007 extended the statewide smoke-free law to most businesses, but the latest amendment extends the smoke ban to previously exempt businesses, including bars and casinos. SHREVEPORT, La. - The Shreveport City Council passed an ordinance that would ban smoking at all bars and casinos. Besides cigarettes, the ban also include electronic smoking devices and vapes. The... Smoke Free Casinos Louisiana, 20 free chip code for slots plus casino and old havana casino, 15 free casino bonus at lucky club casino 22, 100 tournament at miami club casino 285. She’s brainy, she’s blonde and she’s back for more spy action! Free Spins. Ferrari 488GTB. 100% At the website for the American Nonsmokers’ Rights Foundation (ANR), you can download a 21-page pdf of 782 state-regulated gambling facilities required by state law to be 100% smoke-free, plus seven (current and future) Native casinos that are smoke-free by sovereign tribal policy (not including bingo). From the home page, click on the link Smoking Ban in Louisiana Bars and Casinos. Louisiana State Representative Dustin Miller wants to ban smoking in all bars and casinos in the state. In addition to the current smoking ban in most public places, this will be a statewide comprehensive policy that will make all workplaces, including bars, casinos and gaming places smoke-free. Only 100% smokefree environments can guarantee protection to employees and patrons from the toxins in secondhand smoke. Just like coronavirus, secondhand smoke spreads throughout a building. Even during brief or low levels of exposure, secondhand smoke still creates significant health risks especially to the cardiovascular system.
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