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DEMOLITION DAYS, PART 86

That reminds me of a story.
After that last one, I thought you might all enjoy a short follow up.
After Al, Chuck, Leo, returned to their other lives back in the world, they kept getting requests from various Agencies and Bureaus for more mine closure data, mostly focusing upon lines of documentation. The various Bureaus desired monographs, road guides, technical reports, and most importantly, detailed step-by-step “How To” manuals.
My guys, now my fully credentialed doctored colleagues, were predictably reticent to write up “How To” manuals for something that was obviously not of their authorship nor inception.
“Fuckin’-A, Rock,” Leo tells me in a phone call, “They want me to fuckin’ basically claim-jump you writing up mine closing procedures. What’s with these goatfuckers? They figured they paid you enough and are now trying to run a goddamned end around? Collective shitheels. No fucking way I’d even think of crossing, even accidently, the Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover.”
I replied that I had no idea, as after the initial contacts after the field season, I had heard precisely dick from any of the bureaus. Which is fine, as I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm getting ready to shift the family some 12,700 kilometers east.
I thanked Leo for the intel and told him not to worry, it’s just bureaucracy misfiring at its finest.
“Fuckin’-A, Bubba,” replies Leo as he hangs up.
It suddenly goes all dusty in my office. “I’ve trained that boy well,” I sniff and chuckle heartily.
A short while later, Al wrote me that he’s been contacted by the Bureau/Agency and they are desirous that he lead a field trip with a gaggle of professors from various universities. They are also not all geologists, but Environmental Scientists, Hydrologists, something called an “Environmental Engineer,” and other forms of societal detritus.
He tells me that they wanted him to lead a group of these characters out into the desert for a couple of weeks and show them the mine closure procedures which he developed.
He was most adamant in assuring me that they contacted him, and that the terminology was also theirs. He was already otherwise engaged, so he naturally had to decline. However, he made it abundantly clear that he would never even entertain such a notion like the one they had posited.
I wrote him back, as he was down in Patagonia doing something more or less interesting and/or exciting, thanking him for the information and wishing him well on his expedition. Since he was in the field, I also included a couple of the recipes we enjoyed back in the Nevada desert.
He later tells me that the Gauchos he was working with down there have never heard of Pineapple Upside Down Cake and they absolutely were delighted by it. Come to find out, they also like potato juice and citrus drinks as well.
“Good ol’ Dr. Good-deed. Aide to all men.” I pondered.
I talked with Esme about all this and she was of the opinion that either they knew I was headed east or they wanted me to have some time off. I had been doing a lot of ad hoc work for both Agencies and Bureaus over the last few years.
“Of course,” I replied, “Never ascribe to malice what can best be defined by governmental bureaucracy and officiousness.”
So, time puttered on.
We were holding weekly ‘GROJ (Get Rid Of Junk) sales’ on our weekends. Since everything electrical we possessed was 120 VAC, and the rest of the world, it seems, is 220 VAC, I had to part with all my antiquated electronics. My Fisher Studio-Standard stereo system, Akai reel-to-reel 16-track tape machines, EMI TG12345 MK IV recording console, and Harmon-Kardon turntables and amplifiers.
It was painful. However, I rationalized, if I were to stick them in storage for a decade or two, I’d have re-paid for them via rental fees a couple or three times over. Plus, and all that sitting unused in a storage locker certainly wouldn’t be good for these vintage electronical gizmos.
Still, it was a painful time to pack them into the back of someone else’s vehicle.
I had to take all my firearms to my Brother-in-Law for safekeeping. Since he’s in Kentucky, he was both happy to accept and vowed to give them regular workouts. Even though he’s some form or another of mechanical engineer, I guess I could trust him.
One day, the home phone rings. It’s Chuck and he’s livid.
“Rock!” he hollers, “You know what those chapped bastards at the Bureau want from me? They want me to step in on your turf, and take a clan of idiot pseudo-geologists out in the field for a couple of weeks and train them in mine closing. Can you fucking believe that?”
“Chuck,,” I say, “Whoa. Cool down. Leo and Al report the same, so it just looks like you were next on the list. So, going to take them up on their offer?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Doc!” Chuck asks, “First: I’m busy. Second: I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to handle logistics, camping, explosives, and all that other bureaucratic horseshit you somehow put up with. Third: I really don’t want a midnight visit from you and your bag of tricks because I’ve pissed you off by taking credit for what’s rightfully yours.”
“What is the fucking deal?” I ask Chuck, “I’m not like that at all. Everyone thinks I’m going go out and frag them because the Bureau asks them to do a job I did previously. Damn, I’m the most laid-back, gregarious, and even-tempered person on the planet; and I’ll mutilate the miserable manky motherfucker that says I’m not.”
Chuck laughs nervously.
“Hyperbole aside,” I continue, “It’s just that they know I’m headed out to the Middle East and don’t want to bother me right now; I suppose.”
“Umm, Rock,” Chuck clears his thought, and gulps, “That’s not the reason they told me.”
“Is that a fact?” I ask, “What did they give as a reason?”
“Now, Rock, don’t take this wrong. This is Bureau-speak, not me,” Chuck wants to make the point vodka-clear, “But they felt you were the wrong person to lead this group of ‘scholars’. They were concerned with your…”
Hesitation.
“Spill it, Chuck,” I say.
“Demeanor,” Chuck says, “Your conduct, your deportment, your behavior…”
“I see someone got a Thesaurus for Christmas,” I said.
“Rock, that’s them, not me,” Chuck continues, “They said you are too ‘wild and wooly’ to conduct this field expedition of ‘noted scholars’.”
“Is that a fact?” I ask, rhetorically.
“Just reporting to you what they told me, Bossman.” Chuck offers.
“I appreciate it, Chuck. Thanks.” I reply, “Don’t sweat it. I’ll take it from here.”
You could hear an audible expression of relief when we broke connection.
After a couple of cocktails, I had simmered down a bit. Esme says that I need to call my Agency buddies and get the lowdown on the situation, as they’ll know what’s going on.
For once, Esme is also very, very pissed off about the whole situation. Mama Bear’s claws were getting sharpened.
“You are gone for months,” Es exclaims, “Train a bunch of greenhorns, exceed project requirements by over 200%, supply crucial scientific data on forensic activities, and take out a disaster they didn’t even know existed in that mine with the locker full of explosives!”
“Yeah,” I reply, “Does seem a wee bit unappreciative.”
“And then they pull this kind of shit!,” Es yells further, “Those ungrateful bastards. Fuck ‘em. Let them stew in their own futility. They call and you tell them to get stuffed. After all you did for them…”
“Now, now, Dearest,” say, “Let me call Rack and Ruin. If anyone has the skinny on all this, they’ll have all the latest dope.”
“Bastards!,” Es cries, “You damn near get killed several times over and this is their thanks?”
“Yeah, I know, Darling,” I say, “Does seems a bit ungrateful and duplicitous.”
Esme hands me the phone.
“Phone. Call. Now.” She orders.
Looks like I just got my marchin’ orders.
“Yes, my love,” I reply. Even I know when I’m out-matched.
RING RING RING
Agent Rack answers and we go through the usual pleasantries…
“What the flying fuck you mean ‘I’m too dangerous’?” I question Agent Rack.
“Well, Doctor,” Rack tries to explain, “Your ‘cavalier’ attitude towards explosives. More of your ‘relationship’ with them. Not showing the proper deference…”
“WHAT?,” I roar, “Ask anyone that has worked with me in the field! ‘Safety first, last, and foremost’. Just that I don’t fret and quail around explosives like a bunch of phonophobic, jumped-up, wet-pantied shuddering schoolgirls, when I have to demolish something, doesn’t mean I’m anything other than a goddamned consummate professional.”
“Plus, Doctor, ” Rack continues, “It’s not the 1880’s any longer. A Stetson? A sidearm? A .454 Casull Magnum at that…”
“You have got to be yanking my crank here, Rack.” I angrily reply, as I really hate it when someone calls me Doctor like that, “The hat keeps the sun off my head so I don’t get addled like those fuckers you’re talking with at the Bureau. The sidearm is for safety. Oh, yes; there’s that word again. It’s a fucking tool, just like my Estwing hammers or my galvanometer.”
“Can’t kill anyone with a galvanometer,” Rack replies.
“But I could with a hammer, myriad ways” I reply, “And give me five minutes, I’d figure out a way to ‘extract’ someone with a galvanometer...”
Doctor, do let me let you talk with Agent Ruin; I’m needed elsewhere,,” he tells me.
Agent Ruin takes the phone. It’s the old Agency Two-Step.
“Doctor is distraught,” he observes.
No, ‘Doctor’ is just plain damned mad.” I reply, “They contract me for a job that has never been attempted before and I complete it beyond their wildest expectations! This is my recompense?”
“Well, Doctor,” Ruin continues, “I’m sure it’s strictly a business decision. It’s obviously nothing personal.”
“It sure as fuck sounds personal,” I gripe back, as now I’ve gone from annoyed to genuinely pissed off, “I’m surprised they didn’t say something derogatory about my Hawaiian shirts.”
“Oh, they did,” Agent Ruin lets slip.
“Oh? OK, Fine. That’s is then,” I reply, “The joyfulness of this whole experience has left the building. Tell them to strike me from their fucking list. I’m done with them. I wash my hands of them. I’m off east anyways. Fuck that bunch of paper-pushing, deskbound, pencil-necked dickheads. Fuck them. Fuck them solid. Fuck them ‘till they bleed.”
“Strong message to follow,” I add.
Doctor,” Agent Ruin reminds me, “Do I need to remind you that all our conversations are recorded?”
“Oh, fuck no. I know that. So fucking what?” I growl, “Like I’m going to get tossed in Guantanamo for expressing a personal opinion? I can still do that in this fine country. Or has the First Amendment been repealed in my absence?”
“Doctor, you’re obviously agitated,’ Ruin adds, “Perhaps we’ll talk again later when you’ve calmed down before you head to the Middle East.”
“Yeah, about that,” I reply, “You shady characters can cross me off your fucking list as well. You’ve done nothing for me on this latest concern. Nothing! You couldn’t even give me the courtesy of a motherfucking heads-up. Guess that tells me all I need to know about the future of our relationship. Goodbye, Agent Ruin. Give Agent Rack my ‘Da Svidonya. I won’t be answering your calls any longer.
“Doctor, I, um, wait…”Agent Ruin sputters.
I continue: “And as long as I’m at it, tell that other Bureau to go hang as well. They want more data or shit from me, tell them to go find it elsewhere. And also tell them good luck with that. The three experts that exist in the world apart from me already told them to get bent. At least they possess loyalty and a dollop of comradeship. I’ll be shipping your phone and other items back via parcel post. Hasta la vista, Herr Ruin. Have a day.”
CLICK-KER -FUCKING-SMASH! I hang up in the rudest way possible.
“Clapped-out assholes,” I muse. “All those years of working together. All those years of building relationships around the world. It’s all kyboshed over a fucking Hawaiian shirt. I guess it was inevitable. Either I became too specialized or evolved myself out of being useful to them. Ah, well, their loss. Can’t be helped…”
I take a healthy swig right from the prime vodka bottle. OK, several.
“FUCKERS!” I scream at the wood-paneled ceiling, shaking my fist in vehement rage at the clouds coolly cruising by outside my window.
Esme doesn’t come running. She doesn’t have to. She knows the score.
I ship the Agency’s toys back to them with a terse note: “Thanks for all the nothing. Here’s your shit back. Dr. Rocknocker. PS: Get stuffed.”
Not my best effort, I’ll agree. However, I was really pissed at that point.
Now I have the time to devote solely to relocating my family and I overseas. Gad, there’s so much crap one must go through. What to sell, what goes in storage, what to trash, what to give away…the lists are endless.
First to go are all my power tools. Fuckbuckets. It took me decades to amass that collection. I got a good price, sure, but now I’m more or less without a hobby. We decide to put all Esme’s lapidary equipment in storage. It’s too specialized to generate much interest, much less a decent price. Besides, they won’t rot in our absence.
I can ship my fishing gear and golf clubs overseas. They’re American, but at least not 120 VAC.
Our house goes on the market and we have to get it spiffed to within an inch of its life. Got to have that ‘curb appeal’. Good, let someone else do it, I’m busy. More unexpected expense.
I give our house contractors out in New Mexico their marching orders. It’s going slow and will be a seasonal thing, but they guarantee me the house will be ready by next summer if they can source the slabs of Baraboo Quartzite I want. Splendid, that’s something I don’t have to follow up on every day.
Then there’s our aquarium. 250 gallons of treated Houston water, loaded with native Texan fish and a couple of cranky Jack Dempseys. All the gear, filters, pumps, water polishers, heaters, treaters, all of it. Has to go.
My ex-Utah Mormon drinking buddy down the road expresses interest. I basically let him have it gratis on the one condition he takes everything, fish included. He has to keep the fish alive and happy their entire lives. I’ve raised some from minnows and have grown attached to a couple of the gaspergou and a certain smallmouth bass with those big brown eyes…
Digger, my stalwart mechanic, is going to purchase my truck. It’s a bittersweet parting, but at least I know it’ll have a great home. Digger is going to use it as both his personal truck and his company’s hot-shot vehicle for pick-up and delivery of everything from batteries to full drivetrains. I know the vehicle will be in good hands.
Our Land Rover is up for grabs. Few are interested, though; buyer’s market. It’s a couple of years old and has lots of miles, due to Houston being so stupid-big. I order an extra-large bottle of AstroGlide as I know I’m going to be taking it up the ass on this one…
Finally, our pets.
Reluctantly, I’ve agreed to take the cat. It’s a stupid little feline that I figure we can just toss in a suitcase and drag it with us overseas. No, I guess we’ll get a cat-carrier and figure it out with the airlines.
Then there’s Lady. 135 kilos of dopey puppy. She’s getting up in years, as well, especially for a giant breed. Luckily, overseas we’ll be living on a Western compound. So if we go through all the rigmarole of quarantine, getting her a ‘pet passport’, and shipping via a specialist service, Lady can bark at the tenets of pre-Islam (dogs really aren’t haram), and actually join us in our new home.
This is going to cost a fortune, but I don’t care. She’s an integral part of the family, she is going to join us.
I find a Pet Relocation Service and begin the masses of insane paperwork. It’s an ‘all-in’ service, basically door-to-door. But do not be deluded, they charge every micrometer of the way.
Vaccinations, chipping (she already was fitted with an RFID chip), booking, boarding, securing vet services, obtaining health certificates, securing import permits, dealing with all issues related to customs clearance, interacting with foreign agents, supplying IATA approved crates, and obtaining Municipality tags registration for new arrivals.
Gonna cost me a couple-three-four kilobucks. Worth every penny.
Esme, the kids and I are working on beginning packing, tossing this, wrapping that, sentimentalizing over the other thing when we get a ring at the door.
It’s a bonded courier. He has a package for me.
It’s of the size that would contain about 6-months’ worth of Playboy magazines, and has no external address. I sign for the thing and walk back to the kitchen.
“What you got there, Rock?” Es asks.
“Not sure,” I reply, “But it came via bonded courier.”
“Well, open it,” Es smiles. She loves surprises.
I do so and it’s a series of articles, re-prints, and other information regarding Nevada, mine closures, and the Mine Closure Act. There’s also a number of newspaper and magazine clippings that had been photo-copied into a dozen-page document. All of them, write-ups and reviews from different newspapers, house organs, and journals citing my work with the guys out in the field.
I open it further and there’s a personal note from Dr. Sam Muleshoe, and a certified check, made out in my name.
Seems I was correct. After exhausting their leads with Al, Leo, and Chuck, they have spent near a month trying to find someone to take over the project. “To fill my shoes,” as Dr. Sam Muleshoe notes.
They came up totally empty.
“Told ya’ so.” I gloated. Esme smiles a wide schadenfreude-fueled smile.
I look at the check. It’s plenty healthy, but not superhero strength.
I show Es and she laughs out loud.
“So,” Es whoops, “They think they can get back in your good graces by buying you off? Hah! Fat chance,” she says and regards the check, “Hell. They’re not even close.”
I agree with Esme passionately.
I write a quick, hand-scribbled note to Dr. Muleshoe, thanking him for the information. I give several options, some admittedly anatomically impossible, regarding what he can do with the check and the Bureau’s offer.
I wrap it back up with duct-tape, call the courier service, and return it to Reno, COD.
A couple of days later, I receive a phone call. Surprise, surprise, it’s from Reno.
“Rock, it’s Reno!,” Es tells me.
I shake my head “no!” slicing my hand through the air in the head-chop mime.
“Tell him I’ve gone bush in darkest Outer Albania and you have no idea when I’ll be back,” I say.
Esme looks a bit sheepish, as we can hear the phone remark: “I can hear you, you know.”
“Fuckbuckets,” I think, “OK, hand me the rap-rod.”
“Yeah?” I growl, very grizzly-like into the infernal communication device.
“Hello, Rock. This is Sam Muleshoe,” the phone reports.
“Damn,” I exclaim, “I guess you characters can’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Which word fucking confused you?”
“Rock, what’s the god damned deal?,” Sam asks innocently, “Why all the bloody hostility?”
“Oh, double-fuck me!” I say metaphorically, “Don’t act like you don’t know. Try and snake the latest field mine closing job out from under me and try to snag my guys. Then, when that fails, give some sort of bullshit report to Rack and Ruin. You think I’m ‘too cavalier’, too “wild and wooly’, and think I’m some goddamned 19th-century throwback that loves horrible Hawaiian shirts…”
“Doc?,” Sam asks, “Are you currently fucking drunk? What the actual fuck are you rabbeting on about?”
“Sam, I’m stone-cold fucking sober,” I reply, “Yeah. I know, that’s a first. But listen here Scooter. You must have balls of brass trying to sweet-talk me into running another field course after all you did…”
“Rock,” Sam pleads, “Please, believe me, I have no idea what you’re on about. Can we talk and maybe figure this thing out?”
“No!,” I holler, “I’m done talking with the likes of your Bureau. Nothing you can do or say to rebuild the bridges they’ve burned with me.”
“OK,” he says, “Doct…, err, Rock, buddy. Calm your tits. Give me the Reader’s Digest version. I’ll look into it, because I have absolutely no idea what this is all about. This really sounds serious, with fuck-up overtones. Trust me, I’m serious as the last cold can of beer on a field trip.”
“Marvelous.” I say, “I guess I owe you that much. Professional courtesy. At least one of us has the grit to employ some.”
So, I run through the tale of the travails of Al, Chuck, and Leo. Then my little difference of opinion with Agents Rack, Ruin, and the Agency. Plus my severing of ties with both that Agency out on the east coast and the Bureaus in the great American Southwest.
“Doctor,” Sam says intently, “I know it’s going to be difficult, but I swear on a box of your finest cigars with a vodka chaser that I didn’t know anything about all this nor did it come from this office. Por favor señor, let me do some digging. I’ll be back in touch.”
“Sam,” I say, thinking over the situation, “Yeah…I must apologize for my previous outbursts. I should have known you’re not behind this idiocy. Yeah, go do some fossicking. Let me know what you dig up. Again, sorry. I was a bit…animated.”
“Rock,” Sam chuckles, “Do you think that I’d dare anger someone like you? You must think I’ve got a serious case of cranial lithification to cheese-off the Motherfucking Pro from Dover!”
At this point, I knew that Sam was also only collateral damage; he too was caught in the crossfire. Ground zero for the original attacks lie elsewhere within the Bureau.
Esme and I go back to preparing for our trip coming up in 2 months. But Jesus Q. Christwagons, there’s so much to do. Everything you own; it gets packed, stored, or trashed.
It’s the decisions that get so tiring. Keep. Toss. Sell. Burn. Leave on someone’s doorstep.
I propose to Es that we just do the basic necessities. Then we hire some firm to finish up for us. It’d be worth the cost since just think what we’d be saving on aspirin and Ace Bandages.
Esme readily backs the idea that we should turn the job over to someone else. Plus in the interim, we can take a trip back home to Baja Canada so the kids could visit their grandparents, we visit our family, and all of us could cool out a bit before the big trip east.
I need to drop by Big Ray’s Tap for a few hours/days anyways.
Old commitments.
We’d go the beginning of our last month here in the States, spend a couple of weeks visiting family at home, leave the kids with the grandparents to get spoiled rotten. Es and I would return to Houston to finalize everything.
Then Es and I would fly from Houston to that damn sprawling annoyance of an airport on the big lake in Illinoise. The family would meet us there, handover the kids, and we’d all haul ass eastwards to the Middle East.
I readily agreed. Anything has to be better than dealing with this crapola.
Lady and the stupid cat would go to the pet schleppers a little early. Sure, it’d cost a few more dinars, but that’s one big headache sorted.
So, late one afternoon, I’m sitting in my office, trying to figure out exactly what reference works I couldn’t live without.
Compton’s? Save. Field Guide to Fungus? Toss. No, wait a minute. Could prove useful.
That’s why this is taking forever.
The phone rings.
It’s Sam.
“Hello, Sam,” I say, “What news?”
“Goddamn it all to fucking hell and back,” Sam roars.
“That’s a unique greeting,” I reply.
“I finally drilled down to the bottom of all this horseshit.,” Sam replies, “And it’s a real bowl of fuck all the way south.”
“I’m listening,” I say, “Actually, Sam, hold on. I need a drink. Moment.”
I give Es the high sign, note it’s Sam on the phone, and that I’ll be in my office if she hears any screaming.
I amp up my drink and return to my office, closing the door behind me.
Lady is here, waiting to keep my feet warm.
“OK Sam, your nickel,” I say, “What’s the scoop?”
“Would you believe?,” he begins, “That all batshittery this came from accounting and bookkeeping?”
“Well,” I reply, “I’ll have to admit that I’m not overly surprised.”
“Yeah,” Sam continues, “I was off on holiday. My first two weeks off after 5 years. My very temporary replacement received a memo from the head of the Bureau that there was great interest in you leading a shortened version of your last trip to demonstrate to a bunch of different university PhDs in the care and feeding of abandoned mines. Seems the Bureau Chief was very impressed with what you and your team accomplished.”
“OK,” I reply, “With you so far. So, where did things get wrapped around a tractor’s nuts?”
“Right,” he replies, “Here’s where things first went off the rails. Whoever vetted the list of potential attendees sorted the list alphabetically, not by field of expertise. Of course, the obvious first choice would be for geologists; especially those with mining, field, and blasting experience.”
“Ah,” I replied, “No wonder it was such a miscellaneous bunch of baloney-loaf whole-grain enviro-types that Al had mentioned.”
“Yep,” Sam agreed, “But before anyone with any brains got sight of that list, some fucknuts in the Bureau’s University Liaison department sent out invitations.”
“Invitations?” I asked, “To what?”
“That’s just the thing,” Sam continued, “They sent out invites to a program that didn’t yet exist, run by someone who had yet to be contacted, much less secured.”
“Oh, hey! That’s some good work you guys do down there.” I snort.
“Indeed,” Sam agrees, “So once that hit the mail, we started getting back replies and acceptances.”
“And there was no project, no leader, no logistics…?” I asked.
“No shit,” Sam scoffs. “So, what did these idiots here do? Contact the attendees and explain the problem. Take a little flack, but get it sorted out then try again?”
“Let me guess,” I said, “No?”
“Nope,” Sam sighs, “By that time, it was in the works and in the hands of accountants.”
“Oh, fuck,” I commiserated. “I feel your pain.”
“Yeah,” Sam continues, “They see that you’re the hookin’ bull on the last one and they dig into your contract. They figure, ‘Whoa, he’s way too expensive, just look at these expense accounts’, so they do an end-around and contact your colleagues.”
“Al, Chuck, and Leo. They’re damn good guys,” I said, “Fine field scientists, all. But I don’t think any of them have the moxie or experience yet to run a whole field course.”
“These accounting shitheads never bothered to find out,” Sam groans, “It was all ‘bottom line’, so you got caught in the squeeze.”
“OK,” I reply, “I see how that happened, but what about all the shit about me being a 19th-century throwback, that I’m unsafe, wear horrible Hawaiian shirts, and all that shit?”
“Comedy of bloody errors,” Sam says, “Actually, the Bureau Chief likes your fashion sense; you should see some of his shirts. But your slime campaign was based on unreliable evidence, tall tales, folklore, and outright fabrications. It was easy to pimp someone with a personality like yours, it’s been said. Someone was trying desperately to cover his ass. However, we have identified the perpetrator.”
“Next time I’m in Reno,” I said, “I’ll pay him a friendly little visit and arrange his transport to Neptune. One way. Y’know, it’d be easy for someone with a ‘personality like mine’.”
“Ah, yeah. He won’t be here,” Sam says, “In fact, we don’t know where the hell he went. He was immediately sacked, as were a couple of the more boneheaded accountants.”
“That’s redundant,” I smirk, “They really don’t want to talk with or see me anytime soon.”
“Right, then Rock,” Sam says, “We green again?”
“Yeah, Sam,” I reply, “Sure. Green as a New Saigon. But you’ve got to call Rack and Ruin for me. You have to let them know how this whole clusterfuck came to be. We had some words a while back.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam remembers, “I talked with them the other day. They said they’ll be in Houston in a couple of days.”
“Cor! Just what I fucking need right now,” I lament. “Ah, it is what it is.”
“OK, Rock. Now, back to reality. You interested?” Sam asks.
“Send me a JD (job description) and the project particulars. The price of poker’s really going up this time, Sam. Stratospheric. Sorry, it’s all just business.” I relate.
“Yeah…,” Sam sighs, “I figure we’ll really owe you if you can drag our ass out of the campfire on this one.”
“You have no idea,” I chuckle. We exchange farewells and ring off.
Now I have some talking to do with my significant other.
Since we were all set to go back to Baja Canada, I could use those two weeks to go to Nevada, if necessary. I can be back in Houston with Es for the last two weeks before we’re slated to travel, and we can sort out the house.
“This won’t be an easy sell,” I muse, before chatting with my darling, brilliant, and ever-so-forgiving partner.
“I’ll need a drink first”, I declare.
Esme notes that it would be nice to have a little spare cash with us when we move overseas.
You could have dropped me with a Claymore. Es never fails to flummox me.
So, provisional OK from the powers that be. Now all I have to do is wait on Sam’s prospectus.
The next day, the doorbell rings. It’s Agents Rack and Ruin.
One is holding a box of very expensive cigars, and one is holding a bottle of very expensive bourbon.
I turn to Es and remark, “Look here, darlin’. Geeks bearing gifts.”
“Hello, Doctor,” Rack says, bristling, “We need to talk. “
“Why?” I ask, “I do seem to recall that I’m no longer associated with you people any longer.”
“Doctor,” Agent Ruin cocks his head contritely, bowing ever so slightly, “May we please have a moment of your time?”
I look to Es. She shrugs her shoulders. Luckily I’m partial to Es’ opinion. I am also partial to good bourbon and cigars, especially when someone else is paying for them. So I shrug my shoulders as well and tell them to make entry.
“My office, “ I say, “You know the way. Mind the boxes.”
Once in my office, the Agents stack their offerings and go on in great detail, basically collaborating Sam’s story. I remain steadfast and stony as the Harney Peak Granite of Mr. Rushmore fame. I’m not giving anything away any longer.
“Well, Doctor,” Agent Ruin finalizes, “That’s the story, warts and all.”
“Yep, it is pretty warty,” I agree, “So?”
“We would like to rekindle our relationship,” Agent Rack reports, “These are for starters.”
He hands me the cigars and booze; plus another box.
“Thanks,” I say, “But just because I accept your peace offerings, that doesn’t mean we’re going to turn back the clock.”
“What are you suggesting?” Agent Ruin asks.
“No more consulting,” I reply, “I want in. The ‘Full Monty’, as it were. If I’m going overseas and work for some twitchy Middle Eastern sandpit’s national oil company, I want perks, tabs, and my ass duly covered.”
“Work two full-time jobs simultaneously?” Agent Rack asks.
“However you want to structure it,” I say, “No more consulting. From here on out, you want me, you’re making me a full-fledged full-timer.”
Agents Rack and Ruin look at each other, enquiringly.
“Doctor,” Agent Rack replies, “We are prepared to offer you an ad hoc Agency appointment. You will be fully attached but you will be also doing your full-time job in the other country.”
“I’m listening. Tell me more,” I ask, “What exactly are you offering?”
“Full access to all pertinent information,” Agent Ruin continues, “Full entrée to appropriate facilities and, um, assets. Security for you and your family in case of, well, shall; we say, ‘difficulties’. Monthly minimum payment of [$$$] to any non-US bank of your choice. Extra duties would be duly compensated. Top clearances. An enhanced potential payment package, bonus possibilities, and full benefits for you.”
“Full benefits for me and my family,” I say, “Or there’s the door. Non-negotiable” I point out.
“Very well. That had been anticipated.” Agent Rack replies.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “Let us shake on what I hope turns out to be a beautiful relationship.”
We shake hands and I sign my life away. I’m really in it now, up to my neck. I have to learn to shut up more and just listen.
“Now, gents,” I say, “In order to seal the deal, let us break out the drinking stuff you’ve brought along. We will also smoke together so that we will know there will be no lies or deceit between us.”
“Also anticipated, Doctor,” both agents agree.
My ‘new’ old colleagues prepare to leave a while later, after a cigar, and far too much of what was a full bottle of expensive gift booze. They always get you in the end.
Contained within the other small box were my new Agency credentials, updated version satellite phone, secure codes, and a nifty new Swiss Army Knife, with a built-in cigar cutter.
With renewed dedication and expectations all ‘round, Agents Rack and Ruin take their leave.
They hope to be able to meet me and the family, remember, they are Uncles Rack and Ruin, overseas one day in the not too distant future. My information, further updated cards, registration, and all that official business guff will come to the specific Middle Eastern country’s US Embassy for me once we arrive and get settled.
“Marvelous,” I muse.
I receive an Email from Dr. Muleshoe explaining what we talked about and his hopes for my stickhandling a ‘quick’ 2-week field excursion for the approximately 15 Ph.D. types from around North America. Seems there’s a couple of Canadians and one Mexican professor that expressed desires to join. They had actually forwarded funds to be included in our number.
Sam suggests I drive out in my truck and proceed as per the last trip. Get the trailer, fill it with noisemakers, and the Bureau would sort out transportation and lodging for the attendees. Seems some want to camp, like real geologists, and some want to lodge in hotels, like real non-geologists.
I write Sam back:
First item: this is a 2-week sojourn into the desert. It’s a field meeting, emphasis on the field, not a tour of Nevada’s many fine hotels, resorts, and casinos.
Item two: I no longer possess my truck. The Bureau will provide me with the appropriate vehicular equivalent. No passengers, this will be the Camp Chief truck from the onset. Besides, I am the only one licensed to drive the vehicle when coupled to an explosives-laden trailer.
Item three: I will be flown to and from Reno from Houston. No buses, trains, or automobiles. It’s business class or zilch.
Item the fourth: the Bureau will source the necessary support logisticians to provide food, drink, and toilet paper for the 16 professionals while we are in the field. They will also need to provide cooks, dishwashers, camp tidiers, and the like as I don’t have time to deal with 15 potentially field-fresh, whiny waterhead PhDs.
Item the fifth: The Bureau will provide for all pre- and post-trip handling of participants. They can handle hotel rooms for the early arrivers or late-stayers. They can manage arrivals, registration, signing of necessary documents, and assuring vaccination records are up to snuff, waivers are signed, etc. They will also handle the transportation of participants to/from and during the field project, when and where necessary.
Item the sixth: I include a new version of my contract. Force Majeure, ‘Take or Pay’ clause. Door to door coverage. Plus my, ahem, augmented day rate. Absolutely non-negotiable.
Item seven: I have final say over what is done in the field. I am in command, the boss, the head cheese, the head honcho, and I require absolute discipline, especially where explosives are concerned. “My way or the highway” will be the theme of the trip. Gain, non-negotiable.
To be continued.
submitted by Rocknocker to Rocknocker [link] [comments]

MAME 0.208

MAME 0.208

Today we’re proud to bring you MAME 0.208. There are some big improvements to SunPlus SPG240/SPG280 audio emulation. Not only does this greatly improve the enjoyability of the JAKKS Pacific TV games, it’s also timed perfectly for the addition of the Fisher-Price I Can Play Piano music teaching system. That’s not the only newly supported music system this month: we’ve added Jumping Popira, and Popira 2 has been promoted to working. Continuing with the audio theme, moralrecordings fixed BSMT 2000 4-bit ADPCM sample playback, cam900 added support for the VRC7 as a separate device with its unique instrument patches, and schnitzeltony improved Atari POKEY performance substantially. Newly supported TV games include Disney, Disney and Friends, Justice League and SpongeBob SquarePants – The Fry Cook Games from JAKKS Pacific, and XaviX titles Geigeki Go Go Shooting, Gururin World and MX Dirt Rebel. You’ll be able to enjoy the XaviX-based games even more now with improvements to the colour palette.
The Nintendo Game & Watch progress has continued with the addition of Balloon Fight (new wide screen), Fire Attack, Octopus, Parachute and Turtle Bridge. You’ll notice some big software list updates this month. The TOSEC Spectrum Plus 3 disk images have been imported, Spectrum Opus support has been added with software from World of Spectrum, and SDX floppy controller support has been added to the Memotech MTX along with a corresponding software list. The PlayStation, PC-98 and Saturn software lists have been updated with testing results and new dumps, original Apple II disk images have been added as they’ve been made available, another batch of Japanese e-kara cartridges has landed, and coverage of Spanish V.Smile releases has been improved. Speaking of software, AmatCoder has fixed a number of issues affecting Amstrad CPC software. The long-neglected Bally Astrocade home system has had tape and lightpen support added in this release.
On the arcade side, we’ve added Atari’s TTL-based Rebound, early English releases of Karate Champ, an earlier version of Nihon System’s Omega, and world releases of DJ Boy and Gemini Wing. In changes you probably won’t notice, we’ve switched the toolchain used for building official Windows binary releases from GCC 7 to GCC 8, and a new tools package has been made available.
As always, you can get the source and Windows binary packages from the download page.

MAMETesters Bugs Fixed

New working machines

New working clones

Machines promoted to working

Clones promoted to working

New machines marked as NOT_WORKING

New clones marked as NOT_WORKING

New working software list additions

Software list items promoted to working

New NOT_WORKING software list additions

Source Changes

submitted by cuavas to emulation [link] [comments]

DON’T FLY WHEN YOU’RE DEAD…TIRED.

That reminds me of a story.
“Take your time, fellas. He’s not going anywhere.”
Back in the early-middle ‘90s, if I wasn’t flying, I was working, and vice versa. Ostensibly living in Houston, I’d regularly fly to Western Siberia for 28 days of fun and frolic in the oilfields there. Then I’d return to Houston for a few days, only fly off to Buenos Aires, Argentina for another 28 fun-filled days of frolic in their austral oilfields.
I kept this up for over 3 years…I accumulated over 2 million frequent flyer miles because a certain airline liked me and I liked them. Plus, I flew them every single leg.
Just think: fly from Houston to Western Siberia and be 12 time zones distant from home; almost exactly on the opposite side of the planet.
Fly from Houston to Buenos Aires and be only 2 hours out of sync, time-zone-wise, but be 180o sideways seasonally-speaking.
And one wonders why I drink…
Anyways.
I was in a holding pattern in Houston Intergalactic Airport, waiting on Flight 663 from Houston to Amsterdam, a flight I took every other 28 days. Needless to say, I got acquainted with every bartender at the international departures terminal airport watering holes, thanks to a generously liberal expense account. I also go to know the flight crews of my particular chosen airline; they seemed to be on a similar rotational schedule.
Now, this was late spring-early summer in Humidity Valley (aka, ‘Houston, TX.’) and since I am a well-seasoned and usually well-lubricated world traveler, I always arrive early for my flights to Russia. My itinerary was always the same: Houston to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Moscow, Moscow to Tomsk, and Tomsk to Onyoynk. Typically 36 hours or more from door-to-door.
If you’ll pardon me, I have no intention of facing this sober.
So the mesocyclonic weather system that dominates the Gulf Coast this time of year was doing its best “I’m not a hurricane, but I can rain like one” impression. In short, Jupiter Pluvius was excessively blessing the region with a surfeit of his soggy munificence.
In other words, it was rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock.
Flights were in their usual weather-related disarray. I wasn’t terribly worried, I still get my healthy Per Diem from the time I leave my front doorstep until I retread upon it on my return. One of the benefits of writing one’s own contracts...
So, I’m sitting in the lounge patio section, of course, drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side when I see an incredible display of storm-generated natural electrical discharge. It was followed immediately by a literal window-shattering KABOOM of superheated masses of atmospheric air smashing forcefully back into themselves.
Yep, lots of thunder and lightning. The lightning cracked a control tower in the airport substation and the thunder was on point enough to shatter one of the huge observation area windows overlooking the southern runways.
I’m glad I was safe and sound, protected from the ensuing gloom and darkness of a temporary power failure by the candle on my table next to my drinks. I wouldn’t have to worry about going hungry; Houston Intergalactic International Terminal lounge drinks usually came garnished with exotic fruit.
I was also pleased that I was not in the air, ascending or descending when that thunder-boomer hit. Would have probably been so annoyed that I might have spilled my drink.
That’s alcohol abuse in my book.
Well, the power from emergency generators popped on about 2 or 3 minutes after the initial strike so the screaming from all the not-well-seasoned nor lubricated travelers died down. The big board flickered back to life and announced that many, many flights were either diverted, delayed or disregarded. Amazingly, apparently little can upset a 747-400 when it decides it wants to land and Royal Dutch’s finest Boeing-liveried steed settled gracefully onto the squelchy asphalt.
I settled my bar tab, leaving my customary 10,000 Ruble tip; I’m nothing if not ridiculously generous with other’s money, and ambled over to my gate to await our eventual departure.
You see, I liked to be one of the early ones to board. The reason being my employing company had plumped for Business Class round trip fares for me, but since I was traveling solo, I cashed in those Business Class tickets. I then rebooked for the last seat on the left-hand side of the aircraft, the so-called “Geologists’ Seat” on this very-popular-with-oil-folks run from the Gulf Coast to the Continent.
It was an aisle seat, directly across from the rear galley and storage lockers, and only a few short steps from the rear heads, i.e., restrooms. If I could smoke my cigars, it would have been almost perfect, but alas. Also, it was one of a doublet, not triplet, of seats due to its proximity to the galley, so there was only one window seat available.
And, well, who wants the last window seat in the last row of a huge plane?
The vast, vast majority of the time, that seat was unoccupied. So for the price of a cheap-ass coach ticket, I was treated to an impromptu business-class area to relax during the strenuous 8 or 9 hour flight to Amsterdam.
Unfortunately, today, that was not to be.
A short while after the inbound flight was de-boarded and cleaned, they called for boarding of the flight back to Amsterdam. Since I’m rather well known on this flight, the ground crew and aircraft team just give me a heads-up and let me shuffle on the flight before everyone else, Business and First Class included. They know I’m mostly harmless, have great stories to tell, and try to be helpful in case of any untoward events in flight (another story entirely).
So, I amble back to my Geologists’ seat, peel off my field boots, get out my fuzzy Grizzly-bear flight slippers, stow my boots and tack in one of the rear lockers. I’m so nice, I shove my field pack into the overhead compartment so that if anyone is daft enough to venture back to the distant low-rent district of the plane, I’d pull it out and stow it under the seat next to me or in one of the adjacent lockers so they could have the overhead space.
Yeah. That’s me, Mr. Sociable Frequent Flyer. Especially after a few toddies.
I’m talking with a member of the cabin crew, who always seems to be on this flight; we’ll call her Zoe as that was her name.
“Hello, Doc Rock. Long-time, no see.” Chuckles Zoe.
“Hello, Zoe. Yep, back for another fun 28 Siberian day go-round. Oh, here. I brought you these.”
I hand over a package of American cigarettes and Jamaican Cigars.
Zoe lets out a muffled whoop. “You did not forget! American cigarettes! And cigars for my husband! Ah, but I worry; perhaps this is the only reason you think I love you…”
American cigarettes were available in The Netherlands, but heavily, heavily taxed. Jamaican cigars were not available at any price. However, on one previous flight, Zoe saw me repacking my kit and noticed my tobacco supply. She mentioned her husband loved cigars, and so, I set her up with a couple of cartons of Marlboros and her husband a dozen different provenance cigars.
I made a point of ‘greasing the wheels’ thusly every time I flew this particular route.
It wasn’t entirely out of pure altruism, although there was much of that.
I never so much as had to ask for a drink ever again, as my supply of those funky little airline bottles of vodka and cans of bitter lemon always seemed to find their way to my seatback table. I also noshed on the finest First Class chow as Zoe and company smuggled it back for themselves and the gregarious guy in the Geologists’ seat.
Zoe and I were making small talk as one does while the rest of the plane began to fill. It was a popular route for those in the oil business, from the upstream side; drilling, geology and production, through midstream; pipelines and transport, to downstream; retail, refining and sales. First Class was either full or empty, never anything in-between; but Business Class always seemed to have a few vacancies.
I was offered Business Class more often than not, but never once took them up on the offer. I had established a nice, cozy little empire back in the bowels of the plane and no one was going to deny me my right of exploiting that to the maximum. Besides, it was more fun back there when the flight crew dropped by in the wee hours for a few games of in-flight poker. I usually walked off with a load of guilders.
But today was unusual. Thundering, lightning, raining like it does in the southern US so I figured we’d be experiencing delays.
“Bring it on” I shook my fist at a particularly petulant looking cumulonimbus: “I get paid either way.” I snickered.
But no, the plane was fair-to–moderately full, the announcements were being made, and Zoe handed me my taxiing-to-the-runway drink. We were preparing to push back to head east, literally into the storm.
Nothing atmospheric seems to bother Boeing’s largest.
Just then, we stopped, the jetway re-extended and the front cabin doors opened to allow one last straggler onto the flight.
And what a straggler he turned out to be…
Gaudily attired, he was traveling with nothing more than a large helium-balloon bouquet.
He seemed to actually be buoyed up by them. His feet seemed to do a left-lateral O’Brien half-step on the floor every alternate stride. I do think our late-comer was perhaps a bit under the influence…
And he zeroed in on the seat directly adjacent to mine.
Oh, goody-fucking-gumdrops. I get a seatmate and one so light in the loafers, we may have to duct tape him down during any turbulence.
Zoe immediately noticed my perplexion and asked Sr. Goofus; he was of Hispanic extraction if he’d prefer sitting in one of the forward seats, as there were actually whole empty aisles. He, of the half-mast eyelids, goofily grinned and shook his head in a negative manner.
I helped Zoe stow the balloon bouquet as my seatmate buckled and curled up in his window seat and gazed expressionlessly out the porthole. Everything secured, I groused and grumbled to Zoe about someone actually having the temerity to sit all the way back here next to a weary world traveler on the first leg of an exhausting excursion.
Zoe handed me another taxiing drink and admonished me lightly: “Oh, Rock. He’ll be no trouble. We’ll probably not even notice him there…” as Sr. Goofus was already snuffling lightly as apparently Mr. Sandman had backed up a Euclid dump truck and buried him under its soft, snoring load.
Finishing up my taxiing drinks, we were off, winging our way east. Once airborne, it was one hellaciously bouncy ascent. Captain Kangaroo, our Australian pilot, did his best to keep the drinks from spilling, but even a 747 has to make certain concessions to overtly riled masses of angry atmosphere.
We climbed up and over and were able to see the top of the storm, but only the sides of some of the larger hammerhead-shaped clouds that were topping out around 60,000’ amsl. We were traveling at a paltry 32,000’. It was briefly entertaining to see lightning from the top and not be able to hear the thunder.
The flight settled down as we were pointed in a general north-northwest-ward direction, up to Canada’s eastern seaboard, over to Iceland, and down the western side of the European continent. Luckily, we left all that thunder-stormy turmoil shortly after passing over the lower Midwest.
Thus, it was mealtime. Zoe handed me my immediate post-wheels-up drink and proceeded to go forward to ask other weary travelers their dinner and drink orders. She knew what I was slated to receive, the extra First Class meal was already warming in the rear galley oven, so she asked me to ask my seatmate for what he was in the mood.
I gave him a gentle nudge, and he snuffled, shifted a bit and resumed snoring lightly, drooling onto the cabin wall.
“Zoe, I think he’s good for now. Let him sleep, he appears dead tired. But if he has a cold beer due, I’ll hold it for him .”
Cold beer, meals and a few more drinks came and went without issue. My snuffling seatmate grew even quieter, but I did notice occasional tics and twitches so I figured as long as he was happy being quiet, I was also pleased.
After several more vodkas and bitter lemons and an execrable in-flight movie about a South America soccer team; just the in-flight entertainment I wanted to see, I decided it was time for a bit of a nap. The house lights were all drawn down and everyone was settled in for a nice little aerial siesta.
But first, Zoe made certain I had a ‘nightcap’.
The morning dawned bright and early as it often does when thunderstorms are left continents behind. Zoe handed me my sun-riser Irish coffee and offered me first choice of a basket of freshly baked yeasty comestibles.
“Rock, why not see if Sleeping Goofy might want something to eat or drink, he’s been totally asleep this whole flight,” Zoe asked.
I looked over and he was sound-out. Totally zonked. Seemingly sleeping the slumber of the, well, sleepy.
“Zoe, he’s out like a light. If he wants something, he’s a big boy. He’ll ask for it.” I replied.
Zoe agreed and went forward to take care of her cabin crew duties. She returned and saw my coffee was empty and handed me my other morning sun-riser that of the potato squeezin’s and bitter lemon variety.
The flight continued on its merry way and I saw that I was going to miss my flight to Moscow; no great shakes, I could always catch the afternoon flight. Of course, after taking in Schiphol’s Business Class lounge as Zoe had obtained for me a President’s Class Airline card, bless her heart; so I was in no hurry whatsoever once we landed.
The weather was kind and genial over The Netherlands that day and we made a landing so perfect it didn’t even rattle the ice cubes in my landing drink. We land, taxi over to our distant terminal and power down.
Of course, most everyone jumps up like a jack-in-the-box the instant the turbines wind down. I just sat there, enjoying the scene and my recently refreshed beverage.
The jetway extends and someone finds the can-opener or remembers the combination and the forward cabin door finally opens. The crowd surges forward as I’m inspecting the polish on my field boots.
Zoe nudges me and says: “Well, Doc. We’re here. Why don’t you see if Sr. Goofus is ready to go?”
“OK, Zoe. No worries.” I assure her.
I reach over and gently nudge Sr. Goofus.
No response.
I become slight a wee bit more forceful.
“Wakey, wakey. Time to go, buddy.” I say.
Zero response.
Something is not as it appears to be…
I have a surfeit of first aid training but after I decided to check for a carotid/jugular pulse, I realize that’s going to be all for naught.
“Zoe.” I say quietly, “You’re going to need to contact the authorities. Sr. Goofus isn’t sleeping…”
Zoe recoils with a look of shock and horror.
“You mean he’s…?” she stammers.
“Yep, Dead’r than a mackerel. And not just a little bit; he’s 100% deceased. A stiff, bereft of life, he’s shuffled off this mortal coil and joined the choir invisible…evidently he cashed in his chips somewhere over the Atlantic…”
“I get it, Rock.” Zoe plainly states as she regains her composure.
Zoe asks if I can wait and since my Moscow flight was departing in 20 minutes that was an affirmative. She calls the Captain and whoever else is in charge of stiffs on international flights.
“Damn peculiar,” I remarked, as Zoe helps herself to a quick stiff one while making me my wait-for-the-authorities thirst-quencher. “He just winked out. Not a sigh, sound, or gasp. Truly weird.”
Zoe agreed and wondered aloud who was going to claim the balloon bouquet still in the aft storage locker.
The Captain fought his way upstream against the current of deplaning commuters and asked for a quick briefing on the situation.
“Cap, this guy floated on the flight late, remember? We had to go back and reopen the plane as he almost missed the flight. He was the one with the balloons.” I said.
“Oh, that was this character? I see. Did he say anything or do anything out of the ordinary?” the Captain queried.
“Yeah, he was the quietest seatmate I’ve ever sat next to, most unusual. Besides that, not a word and nary a sound.” I remarked.
“Well, the Dutch Ambulance Service has been contacted as well as airport authorities. Can you remain here to give a statement?” He asked me.
“Certainly. As long as the bitter lemon holds out…” I chuckle.
The Captain furrows his brow and Zoe stifles a snicker as he just shrugs and heads back to the little pilot room at the front of the plane.
The Airport Authorities arrive just two quick bitter lemon and potato juices later.
“Right. What’s all this then?” he asks, obviously a transplant from merry ol’ England.
So, Zoe and I regale him with the tale of Sr. Goofus and his evidently untimely demise.
“So”, he says to me “You mean to tell me you sat next to a corpse all the way across the Atlantic and didn’t notice anything?”
I reminded him that corpses aren’t usually terribly chatty.
“Um, yes. Well, there is that…” he agreed.
Seeing there was nothing more for me to do other than gather my kit and head out into the wild expanses of Schiphol Airport, I offer him my business card. I inform him I’ll be in Western Siberia for the next 28 or so days and will pass this way again after that time.
“That’s shouldn’t be necessary. The flight attendant corroborates your story. Seems like it was an unfortunate turn of events for our friend here.”
“That is so. Adios, Zoe. See you in a month or so. And you, Sir, I bid you Добрый день и до свидания [Good day and goodbye].” As I head down the empty cabin.
I wander down the abandoned jet and onto the nearly as abandoned jetway. There was a bit of a clamor as the Dutch First Responders were hastening themselves to the place I just vacated.
“Take your time, fellas. He’s not going anywhere.” I said in passing.
Envoi
Once in-country, I was going through my obligatory urine-test when I had a chance to relate the tale to our company physician.
“Yeah, it was the damnedest thing, Doc. He just shut down, not with a bang nor a whimper.”
“Hmmm…interesting. Tell me, did he ever gasp out, or clutch his chest at any point?”
“No. Not that I nor the flight crew observed.” I replied.
“Did he bleed from anywhere? Eyes, ears, nose, like that?” he asked.
“Nope. Nothing.” I said.
“Well, it’s wasn’t a myocardial infarction; those are intensely painful. He’d have jumped up, gasped or clutched at himself. Doesn’t sound like a cerebral aneurysm either, he would have been bleeding from one or more orifices.” He continued.
“I didn’t check him that closely, Doc.”
[Chuckles] “Of course. From what you describe of his behavior, though, I think it’s a fair bet he was smuggling narcotics internally.”
“That’s what I was thinking as well; but just being a Rock Doc, I figured you’d have a more informed opinion.” I offered.
“Sounds like he had some sort of containers of drugs in his stomach and one or more burst. Doesn’t matter what it was; heroin, cocaine, whatever, his heart got the drug-induced ‘go to sleep’ signal and did just that. Permanently.”
“A shame, really. Now someone will never receive their balloon bouquet. Tragic.”
submitted by Rocknocker to Rocknocker [link] [comments]

MAME 0.208

MAME 0.208

Today we’re proud to bring you MAME 0.208. There are some big improvements to SunPlus SPG240/SPG280 audio emulation. Not only does this greatly improve the enjoyability of the JAKKS Pacific TV games, it’s also timed perfectly for the addition of the Fisher-Price I Can Play Piano music teaching system. That’s not the only newly supported music system this month: we’ve added Jumping Popira, and Popira 2 has been promoted to working. Continuing with the audio theme, moralrecordings fixed BSMT 2000 4-bit ADPCM sample playback, cam900 added support for the VRC7 as a separate device with its unique instrument patches, and schnitzeltony improved Atari POKEY performance substantially. Newly supported TV games include Disney, Disney and Friends, Justice League and SpongeBob SquarePants – The Fry Cook Games from JAKKS Pacific, and XaviX titles Geigeki Go Go Shooting, Gururin World and MX Dirt Rebel. You’ll be able to enjoy the XaviX-based games even more now with improvements to the colour palette.
The Nintendo Game & Watch progress has continued with the addition of Balloon Fight (new wide screen), Fire Attack, Octopus, Parachute and Turtle Bridge. You’ll notice some big software list updates this month. The TOSEC Spectrum Plus 3 disk images have been imported, Spectrum Opus support has been added with software from World of Spectrum, and SDX floppy controller support has been added to the Memotech MTX along with a corresponding software list. The PlayStation, PC-98 and Saturn software lists have been updated with testing results and new dumps, original Apple II disk images have been added as they’ve been made available, another batch of Japanese e-kara cartridges has landed, and coverage of Spanish V.Smile releases has been improved. Speaking of software, AmatCoder has fixed a number of issues affecting Amstrad CPC software. The long-neglected Bally Astrocade home system has had tape and lightpen support added in this release.
On the arcade side, we’ve added Atari’s TTL-based Rebound, early English releases of Karate Champ, an earlier version of Nihon System’s Omega, and world releases of DJ Boy and Gemini Wing. In changes you probably won’t notice, we’ve switched the toolchain used for building official Windows binary releases from GCC 7 to GCC 8, and a new tools package has been made available.
As always, you can get the source and Windows binary packages from the download page.

MAMETesters Bugs Fixed

New working machines

New working clones

Machines promoted to working

Clones promoted to working

New machines marked as NOT_WORKING

New clones marked as NOT_WORKING

New working software list additions

Software list items promoted to working

New NOT_WORKING software list additions

Source Changes

submitted by cuavas to cade [link] [comments]

MAME 0.208

MAME 0.208

Today we’re proud to bring you MAME 0.208. There are some big improvements to SunPlus SPG240/SPG280 audio emulation. Not only does this greatly improve the enjoyability of the JAKKS Pacific TV games, it’s also timed perfectly for the addition of the Fisher-Price I Can Play Piano music teaching system. That’s not the only newly supported music system this month: we’ve added Jumping Popira, and Popira 2 has been promoted to working. Continuing with the audio theme, moralrecordings fixed BSMT 2000 4-bit ADPCM sample playback, cam900 added support for the VRC7 as a separate device with its unique instrument patches, and schnitzeltony improved Atari POKEY performance substantially. Newly supported TV games include Disney, Disney and Friends, Justice League and SpongeBob SquarePants – The Fry Cook Games from JAKKS Pacific, and XaviX titles Geigeki Go Go Shooting, Gururin World and MX Dirt Rebel. You’ll be able to enjoy the XaviX-based games even more now with improvements to the colour palette.
The Nintendo Game & Watch progress has continued with the addition of Balloon Fight (new wide screen), Fire Attack, Octopus, Parachute and Turtle Bridge. You’ll notice some big software list updates this month. The TOSEC Spectrum Plus 3 disk images have been imported, Spectrum Opus support has been added with software from World of Spectrum, and SDX floppy controller support has been added to the Memotech MTX along with a corresponding software list. The PlayStation, PC-98 and Saturn software lists have been updated with testing results and new dumps, original Apple II disk images have been added as they’ve been made available, another batch of Japanese e-kara cartridges has landed, and coverage of Spanish V.Smile releases has been improved. Speaking of software, AmatCoder has fixed a number of issues affecting Amstrad CPC software. The long-neglected Bally Astrocade home system has had tape and lightpen support added in this release.
On the arcade side, we’ve added Atari’s TTL-based Rebound, early English releases of Karate Champ, an earlier version of Nihon System’s Omega, and world releases of DJ Boy and Gemini Wing. In changes you probably won’t notice, we’ve switched the toolchain used for building official Windows binary releases from GCC 7 to GCC 8, and a new tools package has been made available.
As always, you can get the source and Windows binary packages from the download page.

MAMETesters Bugs Fixed

New working machines

New working clones

Machines promoted to working

Clones promoted to working

New machines marked as NOT_WORKING

New clones marked as NOT_WORKING

New working software list additions

Software list items promoted to working

New NOT_WORKING software list additions

Source Changes

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