(no subject)
We could say it's been a busy day at home for Ray. And we'd be right, because it has. It's been a busy year. It's been a busy who-knows-how-long. Ray's tried to get to the Bar a few times and it really hasn't worked out well at all. Romana had to rescue him from a couple of places he wound up by stepping through dimensionally unstable doors with his eyes closed. He doesn't do that any more.
(He's tempted, sometimes, especially when CNN or Congress is involved, but the fear of his wife is infinitely greater than any intimidation factor the cameras may hold.)
Anyway, we could say it's been busy at home, but we're not going to, because we'd have to repeat ourselves several hundred times in order to be truly honest. It is, after all, just a few days past October, and the days in question happen to be the Dias de los Muertos. The worst of the paranormal stuff is starting to taper off, although it won't be back to normal until November 11th is safely come and gone. The worst of the State Department stuff, however? That's still going great guns, especially since India's admitted to having a Turing-capable machine intelligence (its name is Satish) handling most of the data for the Sriharikota Launch Program and the Great Lemurian Empire is agitating for surfacer trade sanctions against nations that fail to crack down on dynamite and cyanide as fishing tools.
All of which is a fancy way of saying that Ray slips into the Bar with the furtive air of someone absolutely convinced that things are about to go wrong, and only relaxes once the robotic dog following him nudges the door shut with its steel muzzle. "Good boy, Francis," Ray says. "Pick out a table for me, would you? I need a drink. Right now."
"WHURF," the robot dog announces, and takka-takka-takkas its way over to a suitable table. Ray will sit down just as soon as he gets a glass the size of his forearm of something forest green, faintly iridescent, and quite possibly sluggishly moving of its own accord. And drains half of it at one go.
It's been that kind of year.
(He's tempted, sometimes, especially when CNN or Congress is involved, but the fear of his wife is infinitely greater than any intimidation factor the cameras may hold.)
Anyway, we could say it's been busy at home, but we're not going to, because we'd have to repeat ourselves several hundred times in order to be truly honest. It is, after all, just a few days past October, and the days in question happen to be the Dias de los Muertos. The worst of the paranormal stuff is starting to taper off, although it won't be back to normal until November 11th is safely come and gone. The worst of the State Department stuff, however? That's still going great guns, especially since India's admitted to having a Turing-capable machine intelligence (its name is Satish) handling most of the data for the Sriharikota Launch Program and the Great Lemurian Empire is agitating for surfacer trade sanctions against nations that fail to crack down on dynamite and cyanide as fishing tools.
All of which is a fancy way of saying that Ray slips into the Bar with the furtive air of someone absolutely convinced that things are about to go wrong, and only relaxes once the robotic dog following him nudges the door shut with its steel muzzle. "Good boy, Francis," Ray says. "Pick out a table for me, would you? I need a drink. Right now."
"WHURF," the robot dog announces, and takka-takka-takkas its way over to a suitable table. Ray will sit down just as soon as he gets a glass the size of his forearm of something forest green, faintly iridescent, and quite possibly sluggishly moving of its own accord. And drains half of it at one go.
It's been that kind of year.