Does plumbers putty harden

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Mike marveled at the beauty of the inner city. He was familiar with Kael architecture and had even seen some up close at the university, but it was far grander here than on Earth, and it was far grander in person than in the videos and pictures he'd seen. The buildings were a hybrid of Gothic and expressionist architecture built with classical aesthetics.
Mosaics, statues, and murals were everywhere, but despite the grand buildings and beautiful decorations, Mike couldn’t keep his eyes off the ground. Even the streets are beautiful.
The ground he and Dreki walked was like a freshly cooled lava flow paved by slates of colored glass that softly glowed in the dimming light of the evening sun.
As they walked, Mike was woken from his trance by the scent of meat cooking.
Dreki smiled and said, “Smells good. You hungry?”
Mike nodded.
Dreki grinned and led Mike around the corner to a food cart. Mike salivated as the flames licked and sputtered at fat dripping from hunks of what looked like octopus turning on spits. The aroma of meat and spices was intoxicating. Dreki ordered them octopus skewers. As he handed Mike his skewer, Dreki said, “You’re never going to be able to eat earth octopus again.”
Mike chuckled. “I’ve never had it in the first place; I grew up in the mountains thousands of miles from the ocean.”
Dreki looked incredulous. “Did you not have rivers?”
Mike shrugged his shoulders, “Not with octopi.”
Dreki raised his free hand in exasperation. “Whatever. Either way, you’ll be disappointed by the rubbery trash humans call an octopus after eating this.”
Mike took a bite of the meat and groaned in pleasure. It tasted like a beefier version of bacon. Mike wolfed down his skewer in the blink of an eye and exclaimed, “That was fucking good!”
Dreki gave him a “Mhhhmh” with his still mouth full.
Dreki finished his food and led Mike off the main road onto a footpath flanked by wispy trees with dark blue leaves.
Eventually, the pair entered the back garden of a building that looked like a melted cathedral. Dreki led him through an open gate into a well-lit waiting room and held out his arm. “Hand me your bag; I’ll take it to your room. I’ll come get you after.”
Mike slipped his bag from his shoulders and handed it to Dreki. As the herculean Kael was leaving, he turned and said, “Try not to scream when they brand you; it’s an ill omen.”
Mike drummed his fingers on the armrests of the chair in the sea foam green waiting room, which was decorated with pictures of duels and exotic plants in white and blue ceramic pots. He was pretty sure that more than one of the photographs was of Dreki’s father.
Mike was anxious. Getting branded would suck, and getting an AR implant would involve someone sticking a drill through his skull. And without his gargantuan minder, Mike felt almost naked. He knew that he would probably be fine, but this was the home of the enemy. Without any weapons, he stood little chance against any Kael worth their salt in a fight.
Mike chided himself for the thought. Why does everything have to revolve around violence? Is there no world where you can just get along with them?
Mike frowned. No. I hate them. Despite his barely contained rage, Mike felt nauseous as blood-soaked memories bombarded his mind.
He doubted that he could kill again, even if it meant dying.
Dreki’s not so bad; maybe out here, more of them are like him than Ocidea.
Mike’s melancholy was interrupted when the tall door at the far end of the room opened. A short, for a Kaelman, nurse wearing pea green scrubs walked out, locked eyes with him, and shouted, “Mike Anderson!”
Mike followed the short Kael nurse into a cream-colored operating room. In the center an instrument table hovered next to an operating table. Besides the operating table stood a middle-aged Kael with tusks intricately inlaid with silver in triangular patterns. His white lab coat had Chief Surgeon Athocill emblazoned over the right breast pocket.
The Chief Surgeon stared off into space, engrossed in AR. The nurse who brought him in pointed to the operating table. Mike sat down.
A slender Kaelwoman in scrubs and a lab coat identifying her as the assistant surgeon walked in and started arranging the tools.
She glanced at Mike and said, “Take off your shirt.”
Mike pulled the black T-shirt he was wearing over his head and set it on the table next to him.
Without looking away from his work, the Chief Surgeon tossed Mike a leather strap and said, “Brand him.”
The short nurse pulled a heat stamp from its case and rolled the numbers to their correct positions. Mike put the leather strap in his mouth and grabbed onto the table.
Dreki’s warning rang through his head*.*
The Nurse carefully placed the print plate just below Mike’s collarbone and pushed it down. The heat stamp's coils flashed white. Mike bit down on the leather strap as hard as he could, and his knuckles popped as he gripped the edges of the operating table as hard as he could. Tendrils of smoke billowed off Mike’s chest as his flesh was seared, and the acrid smell of burnt hair and torched flesh wafted through the room.
Mike stifled a groan as the nurse peeled the superheated steel off his chest. The Nurse set the smoking stamp back in its case to cool and picked up a small jar of viscous blue fluid and a brush. The nurse opened the jar, dipped the brush in the blue goop, and painted it over Mike’s still-smoking burn. Mike jolted at the freezing touch of the brush. His ribs and abdomen rose and fell rapidly as he took short, shallow breaths as the freezing cold shocked his nervous system.
The nurse put the brush away and closed the jar. “Done”
Mike let the leather strap drop from his mouth and put on a straight face as he externally disguised the pain. Showing weakness was not an option, even if every fiber of his being commanded him to scream.
The assistant took hold of Mike’s arm and spoke. “Make a fist and squeeze.”
Mike did as she asked. It was a good distraction from the pain. His knuckles turned white, and the veins in his forearm bulged after a few seconds of pressure.
“You’ll feel a tiny pinch.”
The assistant jabbed the needle into the crook of his arm.
Mike’s head immediately felt heavy, and his whole body tingled. He tried to stay upright, to no avail. His vision grayed out as his head plopped onto the table with a thud.
The surgeon looked to his assistant and asked, “Is he out?”
“Yes.” She answered.
“Let us begin.”
The assistant used a small metal tool to pull Mike's right eyelid open. The chief surgeon plunged a gold needle into the depths of Mike’s right eye.
The surgeon carefully pulled the needle from the human’s eye and set the syringe back down on the floating instrument table.
“Targeting chip in place. Next stage.”
The nurse began rummaging around a drawer in the back of the room, and the chief surgeon plucked a gleaming silver drill from the instrument table.
The drill in the surgeon's hand whirred as he plunged it into Mike’s skull. After just a few seconds, the drill bored through Mike's skull. The surgeon pulled the drill out of the human's head and angled the bit down into a small metal dish that was in the extended arms of the assistant. The chief surgeon hit a button on the drill with his thumb.
A bloody, dime-sized piece of Mike’s skull dropped to the bottom of the metal dish with a clang.
He set the drill back down on the instrument table and held out his hand. “Drone.”
The nurse put an insect-like metal contraption that resembled a whip scorpion in the surgeon’s hand. The chief surgeon's eyes glazed as he entered his AR and took control of the drone. It popped out of his hand and burrowed itself into the hole in Mike's skull.
Inside his AR, he brought the drone to the occipital lobe of Mike’s brain.
“Deploying lattice.”
The arachnid-like drone injected small metal spikes with spools of minuscule wire attached—anchor points—into Mike’s brain. After just a minute's work, the surgeon had crafted a web of wires across Mike's brain. He brought the drone back to the center of Mike’s brain and planted one final anchor spike. A reel inside one of the claw-like appendages at the front of the drone spun, cinching the lattice of wires down to the last anchor point. The surgeon brought the drone around again, ensuring that the web of copper was completely taut against the human’s brain. He brought the drone back out and smiled ever so slightly as the blood and cerebrospinal fluid-soaked drone hopped back into his gloved hand.
Chief Surgeon Athocill smiled and jovially said, “Patch him up.” He was pleased with his performance today. This was the first human to get an advanced AR package, and the procedure went flawlessly. The assistant grabbed a quarter-sized piece of flesh-colored putty and carefully placed the small piece of skull onto it. She placed the putty over the hole in Mike’s head, and it took to life, bonding the fragment of bone back into place and sealing the surface wound.
The surgeon removed his gloves and began typing on a holoprojection. “All systems are operational. I’m linking him to the military network now.”
The assistant pulled the instrument table to her side and plucked a syringe filled with neon green fluid. She said, “I’m waking him up now,” as she plunged the needle into Mike’s arm.
Mike’s eyes flew open, and he grit his teeth against the pain. Tears seeped from his stinging and blood-filling right eye. Every heartbeat brought a jolt of crippling pain to his head. And worst of all was the searing pain from the brand on his chest and the aching cold that barely disguised it. Mike sat up with a grunt. Pain shot through his chest when he brought his hand to his head and felt the hardened disc of putty on his temple.
The surgeon addressed Mike with a soothing tone. “On the count of three, I’m going to activate your AR. It will feel like your head is on fire for a few seconds, but it will only last a few seconds. One… Two… Three!”
Mike nearly collapsed with the pain, but he managed to limit his response to a grunt. Light flashed before his eyes, and Kaelic text appeared in the center of his vision. The doctor asked, “What do you see.”
Mike answered, “AR active. And below that, it says setup wizard.” Despite his best efforts, pain was evident in his voice.
“Ok, Mike, I want you to think, ‘open setup wizard.’”
Mike blinked a few times. “Nothing happened.”
The surgeon said, “Think it in Kaelic.”
Mike’s brow furrowed in concentration. He was fluent in Kaelic, but not to the point where he could think in the language at will.
“Ok, I got it. It says setting menu at the top, and there are a ton of things here. Do you want me to read them off?”
“No. Can you scroll down?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You should be able to get the hang of this pretty quickly; it's very intuitive. You’ll see that there are a few HUD profiles that you can pick from. I’d recommend you start from profile two and then customize it as you see fit.”
Mike nodded as he selected profile two.
“OK, now think clear.”
Mike did as the surgeon asked. His vision was now cleared.
The surgeon smiled. “Feel free to fiddle with the settings, just think clear if it gets cluttered, and reset if you make a dog’s breakfast of it. You’ll have a headache for the next few days, and you may start having more vivid dreams, but other than that, you’ll barely notice the change. Just take it easy for the next few days, and don’t itch at your brand or your eye.”

Just received my new metal screw in tips... They work great with the pen provided but alas, the holes on some of my other pens are too big! The washi tape trick suggested to help stop the tips moving in the o ring style tips kind of works with the screw in tips, but that goes against the whole point of buying the screw in tips! 😅😂🤣
Learn from my mistake and save yourself some cash!
If you're buying metal multiplacer tips, go for screw in straight away before buying lots of fancy pens like I did. The hole on the pens to receive the tips is not a consistent size and don't have cut threads like the pen I received with my new screw in multiplacers.
If you're having issues with multiplacers moving while you're painting there's a couple of things you can do to help:
• Consider how hard you're picking up the drills. I've recently worked out that less pressure is (most of the time) better. Also, the putty or wax you use plays a big part, but recommending those is difficult because depending on where you are in the world some waxes or putties are better suited for the temperature and humidity of your surroundings.
• Washi tape. Wrap this around where the o rings (or screw threads) are on the tips. This can give you a really snug fit and should stop the multiplacers from slipping. I've also had good results with PTFE plumbers tape. I've also read that some people just glue the multiplacers into their pens.
I hope this is of some use to people!
Does anyone else have any tricks they use?

It dug out a good two inches deep and about four inches wide. I was thinking of some type of hardening foam and then using wood putty which I would sand down. Would that work? If it does, what type of foam would I need? Thank you!

“Khan!”, I shout as the big lummox lopes mightily for the door.
Lopes for the door with my lucky toque in his mouth.
Seems he’s found a new toy, and snatched it off the bed while I was packing.
“Khan! Get back here!”, I growl and he squeezes through the half-open rear door and heads out in the back 40.
“Es, can you keep an eye on Khan while I get packed?” I asked sweetly. “I’ve got to catch that flight to Calgary; what it being all last-minute and such.”
“You know I’m not happy about you going back out in the field, Rock”, Es scowls. “You’re finally healed up and all it takes is one bloody phone call…”
“Yes”, I smile as graciously as I am possible, “But Claghorn has thrown us a load of business over the years, and sort of pulled our ass from the fire back in the dark days of 1990…”
“Oh, I know”, Es agrees, “But, I just got you back to scrappin’ form and don’t need you crippled or killed.”
“Yes”, I agree, “That would be a bad thing…”
“Very funny”, Es’s scowl deepened. “You’re lucky it’s only a gas well that needs your special touch and not an earthquake where you’re mining for recoveries…”
“Oh, I agree”, I readily agreed. “Simple ‘lightning cracks a control head’ out in Nowhere, Alberta. Easy as cake. Piece of pie.”
“Yeah”, Es groans heavily. “I remember similar ‘simple jobs’ that cost you body parts and me almost a husband. Do be careful and delegate this time. Let the younger crowd take up the slack; you’re still handling the reigns.”
“WOOF!” adds Khan from just outside the doorway; my soggy toque hanging from his slobbery maw.
I look to Es, shanking my head, totally defeated.
“Never mind’, I say, “I’ll pick up a new one at Holt Renfrew. I’ll have a bit of time once I get to Calgary and I can get a new, slightly less soggy chapeau.”
“WOOF!” Khan agreed and set off in search of the evil Mrs. Bun and her cadre of garden munchers.
“Anything you want while I’m there?” I ask.
“Yeah”, Es replies sardonically, “For you to return in one piece. That too much to ask?”
“Message received and acknowledged”, I say, snapping a smart salute to my better half. “Well, I best be packing. Chopper will be here in a half hour or so…”
Back upstairs packing, I reminisce, none too fondly of the past 6 or so months.
Damn near die due to a cave-in, emergency extraction flights, physical therapy, a trip to Japan to get my left hand fixed/upgraded, test after medical test, see more doctors than on a Palm Springs golf course on Easter morning, more physical therapy, diet, exercise and get a whole new drug regime to keep me ticking for the foreseeable future.
I pick up my Bug Out Bag and see that it’s still fairly light.
I toss a box of shells and my favorite .454 Casull into my bag.
“Just in case of polar bears”, I think, smiling quietly to myself. “And uppity beer cans.”
I toss in some jerky (low-sodium variant), a box of cigars, and another couple boxes of ammo.
“Never know what I’ll find out in the sticks of Canada”, I muse. “Good thing I’m a VIP so get to go all Diplomatic Pouch on customs agents. They’d have kittens knowing I have a couple of spare boxes of millisecond-delay detonation cap superboosters in the steel box in the bottom of my bag.”
I snicker quietly to myself as Khan proceeds to lose his mind outside.
“ES!”, I shout from upstairs, “Grab Khan, my ride has arrived.”
“He’s in, the big coward.”, Es replies. “Guards his yard until he feels the rotor wash then hightails it inside to bark at the interlopers from a safe place.”
“Good thing”, I think. “I’d hate to see what Khan could do to a defenseless helicopter.”
I swing my bag around and heads down the stairs. One at a time, as I’m no longer 20 years old.
“Damn”, I think out loud, “This bag’s suddenly gotten really heavy…”
Time and tide…
I give Khan a big smooch and scratch Es behind the ears…
Wait one.
Reverse that.
Es gives me a well-placed swat on the backside and reminds me to keep my promise and return in one piece.
“I endeavor to assuage your worries”, I reply nobly, “I shall return triumphant and intact.”
“Oh, and as long as you’re out shopping”, Es smiles and hands me a list that could easily been titled ‘War and Peace, Vol. 2’.
“Well,”, I smirk, “There goes that well’s bonus…”
“Back soonest, m’dear”, I say as I wander toward the Claghorn Company’s one and only helicopter.
One of the helpers on the chopper runs out and grabs my bag from me.
It’s going directly to the wellsite.
I’m going directly to the airport.
I get to go through TSA and eventually Customs.
My bag does not.
I like traveling like this.
Unencumbered.
More or less hands-free.
I smile to myself as I plop into the comfy, well-worn leather seat, affix the headphones and pull out a huge Churchill Maduro Cohiba #7.
“Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh”, the helicopter notes until the cadence and pitch change. We’re suddenly both airborne and headed rapidly towards the nearest international airport.
One of the cabin crew hands me a packet that contains my flight ticket, letters of introduction, and copies of most of my blasting credentials. She also hands me a tall, frosty mug of bitter lemon, lime juice and vodka, on ice.
I signal ‘Thank you’, and gratefully accept them all.
I proceed to look through the documents and for once note everything that I asked for or had ordered is either on site or headed towards location.
The situation is such: there’s a gas field up north in Alberta where a producing wellhead was cracked by lightning.
Happens more often than one would think.
Lightning not only cracked the wellhead, but set the gas it was producing alight.
Consider it a cigar lighter operating at 4,000 psig.
It was also producing about 1.1 million cubic feet of natural gas per day.
It made for one helluva cigar lighter.
So, it was up to me to go contain the beast, as it was luckily a sweet, not sour gas well. I must remove the damaged hardware, quench the fire and re-install the appropriate surface hardware to get the little beast back into production.
But most of this is going to be done by remote control.
I’m delegating most of the surface works; but I alone have the proper education, experience and credentials to blow out the fire.
That’s why I was surprised that my requests for MIL-Spec explosives (mostly RDX, C-4 and the Canadian equivalent of Herculene 60% extra-fast ++ dynamite) was met with a hearty “Yes, sir” rather than the usual grousing and bitching I’m use to in the more remote places on the planet.
We chopper into the local international airport where I’m scurried to my plane and my Business-class seat. First time I’m arriving without luggage or at least some of my more sedate blasting paraphernalia.
“Why, yes, thank you. I’d love a pre-departure drink.”
Somethings are best left unchanged. Tradition and all.
Also, this is the first time I’m going in “Bootless”. That is, I’m the only one from my company.
Most of my folks are busy domestically or have headed off for greener pastures during my recovery period, so my company is primarily myself and a handful of coscripts or contractors.
There’s a new moon on the horizon and time for the old guard to gracefully accept the new kids on the block.
But first, they need to prove to me they’ve got the ‘Right Stuff’.
I do random drug tests on location.
You fail or try to somehow violate these tests and it’s one time and done.
I don’t test for alcohol, marijuana (since it’s legal here now) or nicotine (as they do in the Middle East). But you try and snooker a test with store bought (or, this one I really like: your pregnant sister’s) piss and it’s ‘Adios, Casoots’.
I run a fairly relaxed crew but I need all hands-on deck with all faculties performing at 100%.
We are doing some of the most dangerous work in the oil field.
That’s why I pay the highest wages in the patch.
And that’s why you’ll toe the line or I’ll have you run off location.
Period. End of sentence. No tap-backs.
I’ll also expect you to know your ass from your elbow and the difference between blasting putty and silly putty.
I’ve hired a company out of London (UK) that I call when a job appears. I tell them how many bodies I need, what the JDs (job descriptions) are and when I need them. I’m supposed to tell them how long a job will take, but they’ve learned to quit asking.
“It’s over when it’s over”, I tell them. “Every job is unique.”
For a handsome retainer and more based on a per-body agreement, they supply me the field hands I need for a job, all with the proper education, experience and credentials.
It only marginally beats keeping a large number of specialists idle until a job suddenly appears; especially since I’ve sold-off the machine works part of my company.
Nice thing about royalties. I may not be making the devices any longer, but I get a nice check every time someone else does.
So, I fly into Calgary’s International Airport, curiously named “Calgary International Airport,” and wander off the plane. I stop by some of the local shops to see what I can get Duty-Free; y’know, for the trip back home. I go through passport control with an efficient “Welcome to Canada”, a brisk stamp in my well-worn passport and through customs without missing a step.
“Nothing to declare.”, I note.
“Expect for my genius”, Oscar Wilde added quietly…
Wearying of the long flight and interminable walk to exit the airport, I get a lift from one of the pursers running around with their little electrical golf-type carts.
“Are you needing baggage, or ground transportation”, the purser asks as he deftly slips the portrait of Andrew Jackson which I just handed to him into his tunic.
“No. I should have a driver with a sign waiting by the airport’s main egress.” I reply.
“I see”, he replies and we electroscoot off to that airport’s main entryway into Canada.
“Finest kind”, I say as I sip the drink the flight attendant said I could take with me.
“It’s a sin to waste food or drink”, she reminded me as she topped off my beverage. She also made a portrait of Andrew Jackson disappear quicker than a bunny fucks…
Anyways.
We both spy a chauffeur-bedecked individual with a sign reading “Dr. Rocknocker”, in large san-serif type.
There was enough room on the cart for him as he directed our driver to the short-term parking area and his trusty metallic steed.
Once in the back of the ridiculously-sized for one person limo, I am going through a package of papers prepared by Clyde Claghorn, the owner of the oil company with the recalcitrant gas wells.
Really.
Clyde Claghorn of Calgary, Canada.
Not my fault he’s so heavily alliterative.
Anyways, in the packet is my return flight ticket, my reservation at the Dorian Hotel; Executive Suite, of course. Plus, my plans for shopping and dinner before I ship out in the morning and chopper to the wellsite.
Clyde has made reservations for us at Chairman’s Steaks, a well renowned beef eatery here on the plains of Canada. He’s set the time at 19:30, and hopes that he can join me there. If not, he’s taken the liberty of ordering a set menu for me.
He’s starting me with a 1936 Montervertine, “Le Pergole Torte”, Sangiovese (Tuscany, Italy) from his private cellar.
I’m not a great oenophile, but anything of that age has got to have some pedigree.
Then it’s for the main course: 40 oz. ‘Canadian Waygu’ porterhouse, bleu.
Yep, Clyde does his homework.
Then for afters, a Cedar-smoked Rocknocker (Bitter lemon, Stoli Gold, Rose’s) and a fine ‘My Father Don Pepin Garcia 70th Birthday Humidor Select’ cigar.
Wonderful. Since that’s handled, back to my workman’s list…
We arrive at the hotel and I wasn’t allowed to even carry my wellsite attaché case.
Check in, sans luggage, receive the key for my room and mini-bar as well as an invitation to the ‘Master’s Club’, at my convenience, anytime day or night.
So, off we troop to my room and it’s mildly-spectacular with a great view of the city, a huge in-room Jacuzzi, monster California King bed, my business office which was already set-up and ready to go as well as a fully stocked mini-bar that looks like it could take some serious hits and not show the damage.
The bellhop deposits my wellsite case on the floor and notes that there’s a box of cigars waiting in the mini-bar, courtesy of Mr. Clyde Claghorn of Calgary, Canada.
“How nice”, I note as a pair of Andy Jackson’s once again disappear into the bellhop’s wallet, as I hand him Es’s list and some cash for the concierge.
“If you require anything else, Sir, please ring the concierge at x1819”, he said as he departed and closed the door behind. He assured me he’d have Es’s list filled and shipped by tomorrow.
I called Es immediately and told that I’ve arrived intact, and how onerous and uncomfortable the trip has been up until this point.
Nahhh. She didn’t believe it either.
After the necessary words were exchanged, I decided it was finally time for some real work.
But first, a drink and a cigar.
True to his words, there was a box of some of my favorite smokes sitting on all the Toblerone, mixed nuts, and canned local beer.
“Triple maduro Comacho Churchills”, I smiled quietly to myself.
Just what one needs before plunging into real work.
I had some time before I’d need to ready myself for dinner so I went over some of the more vexatious paperwork. Y’know; visas for incoming experts, flight arrangements, seeing that all my supplies that I had asked for are on-site or on their way.
“Damn”, I muttered, “Where the hell was my bug-out bag?”
As if by magic, I answered a knock at the door and it was the bellhop with my wandering bug-out bag.
“Sorry, sir”, he apologized, “But customs were slow clearing your bag and its contents.”
“But they already had the disclaimers and necessary documents, didn’t they?” I asked.
“Well”, he stammered, “They had never seen some of the things you are bringing into the country. They had no problem with your sidearm, but the blasting caps and detonators gave them a bit of pause.”
“I suppose”, I noted, “That it’s not every day you see such gear.”
“Indeed, sir”, he agreed as another portrait of AJ disappeared.
A quick reconnoiter of the bag’s contents notes it was emptied at one point, but everything was where it was supposed to be. My Casull had a zip-tie around the trigger and the boxes of ammo were wrapped in typical airport clear tape.
“That’ll stop’em”, I chuckled as I used my Leatherman to snip away the offending plastic.
Back to business and then, a quick few laps around the Jacuzzi, a couple of toddies, a shower and preparation for dinner.
I did dine solo that evening, as Clyde was unavoidably detained.
The wine was, in the words of the sommelier, “Exquisite”.
I drank one glass and switched immediately to double vodka cocktails.
He wanted to know if I wished to take the rest of the bottle with me when I departed.
“Nah.”, I replied, “Taste reminds me of furniture polish. You can take it if so inclined.”
He was very much so inclined.
He presented me a bottle of some local winery when I left as a token of his appreciation.
Sorry if my tastes run more to Bob’s Backwash and Gallo; but the steak was exceptional.
Grilled little portobello mushrooms and a side of succotash. It was lovely.
I was ushered to the Smoking Room for after-dinner cocktails and cigars.
It rang 2300 hours and it was time for me to return to the hotel. Tomorrow’s going to arrive way too fast and I need at least a few hours kip.
Clyde picked up the tab for the evening and I wasn’t terribly extravagant with the tips, but the bill ran heavily into four figures.
“All part of the business”, I chuckled. I’ll probably give him a bit of slack on my bill, but that dinner tab wouldn’t scratch the surface of what this will all eventually cost.
Back to the hotel, and after a few laps in the Jacuzzi, another fine cigar, a toddy or five, it was a good-night text to Esme and I was off to the land of Nod.
The next morning, I was back in a chopper headed essentially due north, north of Edmonton and deep into the Nikanassin Deep Basin Gas Play.
Airline flights in this sphere of influence are about non-existent, so it was easier and cheaper to charter a helicopter from on of Canada’s many private fliers; this one “Mountain View Helicopters”.
Very efficient and on-time.
I like that in a charter.
I like even more that they don’t ask too many questions and just fly the bloody thing.
We arrive actually slightly ahead of schedule and even so, the Company Man, a Mr. Camden Menton greets me as I depart the whirlybird.
“Doctor?”, he asks, “A pleasure. Glad you’re here, we’re in a spot of trouble.”
“Nothing too untoward”, I reply, as he shakes his head and direct my gaze off to the distance where there’s three huge plumes of black smoke issuing skyward and off to the north.
“Wind shifted last couple of days”, he explained, “And we didn’t have enough field water to keep the adjacent wells cooled off. One cooked off yesterday morning, and the other last night.”
“Get me a jeep and driver”, I immediately said, “I need boots-on-the-ground inspection”.
The jeep and driver appeared quickly while I got some lowdown on the wells that were added to the fray. Luckily, they were near identical to our first well so I told him to get cracking and triple the order I made before I left.
Three Xmas trees.
Three Athey wagons.
Three D-9 bulldozers.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
And three times more explosives and detonic gear.
I sat there in the Jeep, bouncing towards the conflagration and rubbed my bewhiskered chin, “Mr. Claghorn, the price of poker just went up.”
There was an audible groan to be heard, but it could have just been the wind.
We drove cautiously and bumpily around the triconflagration, always keeping an eye on the red flags placed around the perimeter of the fires. We watched those flags, and concomitant wind direction, as a quick shift of the wind vectors and you could find yourself rapidly emulating a Christmas turkey just before dinnertime.
Or, if you prefer something more fowl, your goose would be cooked.
Anyways.
The wells were about 150 m (~500’) apart and luckily the weather called for fair and slightly cloudy days ahead, with light and moderate winds. Unfortunately, the winds were shifting all the time. We actually had a spotter sit out in a shack with binoculars recording the wind shifts in real time. If we were going to blow out all three wells, we had to have a damn good idea that once extinguished, they’d stay that way and not reignite each other.
However, there was one little, itsy-bitsy problem that speed-bumped our path before we could do that. Each well was sporting a now non-functional, out of specification and broken wellhead. These were in various states of disrepair, but each was where we didn’t want them to be and needed to be removed. They were spreading the fires and instead of a single plume of burning gas and condensate going straight up, they were being diverted at the wellhead-flange interface, spreading the flames out laterally like beautiful, but ever so deadly, blossoms of fireflowers.
The first well, the middle one, was the worst. It had a piece of the production tubing stuck in the wellhead, meaning we’d have to cut it off somehow before removing the wellhead itself.
I, of course, opted for explosive removal (“Just a pinch of C-4”, I’d smiled) but there was grousing that doing so might fuck-up the flange of the wellhead, which we needed to be very much in serviceable condition if we were to fit a new tree to the wellhead.
“OK”, I said, “Let’s give the non-explosive method a try.”
This meant that someone (give you three guesses who…) was to go out to the wellhead and cut off the offending pipe with an oxy-acetylene torch. Before that, the field hands would have removed the bolts connecting the pipe flange to the wellhead, and replacing those with some heavy-duty “C-clamps” that were 2” thick hardened tool steel. These had bails welded to them so that when we wanted to pull the head, we’d use a dozer and some cables with hooks to pull them off the wellhead, thus separating and freeing the two pieces of oilfield iron.
Or so went the plan.
The wellhead was unbolted and dozers hooked to the three C-clamps that were holding the wellhead in place. I had noticed something unkosher in the set-up but was really unable to dwell on that as I walked out to the burning well. Even in my P-4 containment fire suit with internal cooling, getting to within 200’ of these wells the temperature started to rise. I had alarms set in my suit that would light off if the temperature internally rose above 130 degrees F.
At this temperature, you’d have about 3-5 minutes to get out of Dodge and get cooled down.
Any longer, and you’d quite literally be toast.
Luckily, we had a good water supply and with the three monitor water cannons, each producing a cooling fog of approximately 75K liters per minute.
Which means you’re trying to cut a piece of hardened 2.5” production pipe in a burning 4,000 psi hydrocarbon pressure environment in a hurricane with an acetylene torch.
Life can be such fun at times…
Such deluges also transform anything solid, like say the Pleistocene alluvium here that comprises the soil; into gasping, quaking, sticky mud.
Such fun.
We (myself and my apprentice, Roger) approach the well and call to those manning the water monitors to shift north here and east here so we can see the wellhead without having it look like were peering through Noah’s Deluge. After a few minutes of futzing with the water cannons, I spark off the torch and begin cutting that wayward piece of production tubing.
Oh, I know, Es would have lost her mind if she saw me out there again, once more, headlong into the fray. But this is both easy for me and a precision job. What’d take me ten minutes would have taken anyone else on the planet thirty. How can I say that? Because the other firefighting companies would have used droids, mechanics or other forms of machine-driven contrivances instead of manpower.
Me? I like it “Old School”.
Plus, I like to keep my hand in, as it were and keep my skills up to snuff.
So, the pipe cut, I kill the torch, tap Roger on the shoulder and tell him to give the dozer the high-sign as we slowly wander off location.
The dozer’s one note song goes from an idling snuff to a roar as the big D-9 Cat leaps forward at over 2 miles/hour.
The cables grow instantly taught and it was at that moment I realized what was bothering be earlier.
There were no chain dampeners on the cables.
Chains, when they break under stress, snap and drop to the ground. All that potential energy is absorbed by the individual links and there’s no snap-back.
Cables, or wire ropes, store up all that potential energy and when loosened, they snap and snake out and back at ludicrous speeds and energies.
Snapped wireline cables have been known to slice a man in two from their whip-back and instant release of all that energy.
I was blaring into the suit’s radio to try and get the cat-skinner to stop and reverse, but he didn’t receive my message.
I pushed Roger out of danger’s way and trundled my bulk as fast as I could to be out of range of any snapped cables.
Even above the roar of the fires, my geriatric ears could hear the cables tighten up, begin to neck-out and prepare to snap.
Luckily, the Cat-skinner was an experienced hand and he heard/felt/sensed it as well.
He stomped on the brakes and threw the huge machine into reverse just before the cables reached the point of no return.
I was royally pissed.
…Continued in Part 2.

My fiancé [33M] and I [33F] have been together for 2.5 years. We have lived together for 2 years. I have owned my apartment for 8+ years and he moved “temporarily” which has turned into long term because we are saving for a house. The space is small but we try to make it work.
My fiancé has chronic health issues that have largely been undiagnosed. He spent years in pain with debilitating migraines which led to isolation and loss of many friendships. I met him soon after he realized he is allergic to gluten and dairy. There are also other issues he does not have the answers to yet, but he has been discouraged by modern medicine.
Around 6 years ago, I found out my bathroom sink was leaking. Previously, there were problems with the kitchen sink and the toilet. The super in the building often used putty or some temporary solution that would ultimately fail. It was a long process of trial and error. Finally, my dad came over and fixed it himself. I had been so exhausted from the experiences, especially being a single woman (at the time) living by myself have random repairmen come in and out of my studio apartment for days. I acknowledge that I should have fixed the bathroom sink.
Instead, I just didn’t use that sink. I would use the kitchen sink or the bathtub faucet to wash my hands. When my fiancé moved in, I told him not to use the sink because it leaks. Unbeknownst to me, he was using the sink. He was constantly letting it run because he used it for bathroom noise cover. When he finally did notice water on the ground, he offered to get me a plumber (which I don’t recall but believe is possible) and I told him that it was unnecessary because the super would take care of it for free but the whole thing is a hassle. He is accusing me of “gaslighting” him for not telling him the full extent of the leakage problem. I honestly wasn’t sure what the full extent was because I didn’t use the sink but mold developed in the cabinet since he’s been using it. He has severe allergies so the mold (he suspects) was hurting him and I was complicit. He’s been treating me terribly ever since this occurred because he said his angediscomfort is a “symptom of the mold exposure” and because my actions were so egregious, they deserved punishment.
I’ve been trying to earn his trust back and purchased a new bathroom cabinet. The repairmen recommended we bleach the old cabinet, but my partner would have been upset so I insisted we throw out the old one. Later, my dad installed the new bathroom vanity.
Also, another example of “gaslighting” is when I came home from going out with an old friend visiting from out of town. They wanted to go to a dispensary (which is legal where I live). I bought him a “special” caramel gummy because I’d never seen them as dairy and gluten free. He had been very tense and hurtful for the weeks leading up to this exchange. I gave him the candy and he looked at the label and was like, “is this a [special] caramel?!” And I told him yes immediately. I was messing around but hoping I would eventually convince him to try it to generally calm him down. I was always planning on telling him there was THC. This all happened in less than 5 mins. Now he says I’ve been trying to drug and gaslight him.
My most recent offense occurred this past weekend while we were staying at my friend’s house for a weekend trip. I was speaking to my friend, who is possibly infertile due to endometriosis, which she is having surgery for in a couple of weeks. She was asking if I ever want to have children. I spoke highly of adoption because I do believe it is a beautiful and there are so many kids in the world who need parents. I also opened about my desire for children in the future. I would prefer not to carry them due to my fears of pregnancy. I was interested in a surrogate and have always been, but previously thought it was out of our price range. I recently was a documentary about Americans finding surrogates in other countries. It is less expensive but there are ethical concerns and definitely a need for more information and research before committing to anything. As soon as my partner and I were in the car to go home, he confronted me about surrogacy. He said I never told him and was gaslighting him about it. I told him on many occasions and I cited the ones I recalled. He countered that he thought I was joking. I tried to listen to his perspective and agreed to a “traditional” pregnancy when the time arrives. We both agreed we were not having kids until after we are married. He said he could no longer trust me because I make decisions without him and change my mind. I never previously spoke to him about a traditional pregnancy, but he said it would be rational to assume that a heterosexual couple would exhaust all other options before considering surrogacy.
Before my partner started accusing me of gaslighting, I had a rudimentary understanding of the word based on context clues, but I never dove deep. Last night, I searched online to understand what gaslighting is. The descriptions can be somewhat vague. I’m concerned that I have been gaslighting and I would really like to change if that is the case. Do these scenarios quality as gaslighting and why? How do I earn his trust back? Thank you.
tl;dr My partner has been accusing me of gaslighting in situations I initially believed were not relevant. Now I am confused as to what qualifies as gaslighting and how we move past that?

I don't know why google is having a hard time with this (google is getting worse every year - I've had to change my locations to find results). Anyway, I saw it on a youtube video from Eastern Aisa (China/Japan etc) and I looked it up, there are various brands on Aliexpress and amazon, and some blogs. There's some called Cosmos and Grace, and others. I can't tell if this is just some kind if air dry clay (it is air drying/hardening and not baking) or if it's similar to resin putty like milliput. It doesn't come in 2 parts though so I doubt it. It sort of reminds me of the Sculpey air-dry they sell at Michaels (I've never tried it but it seems similar maybe), although it's supposed to be very smooth and soft. It's commonly used for small delicate things like miniature dolls and flowers/objects. Here's one video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2MC9KuAxUc there's many like this. I wonder what it's made from! And does anyone know what are the best brands?

I’m replacing the escutcheon around a shower handle. Original plumbing is circa 1985. The whole assembly doesn’t seem to be firmly attached to the wall; when I wiggle the shower pipe, I can move the tub pipe.
There is also a replacement tile behind the escutcheon that is lower than the surrounding ones, creating a gap.
The old escutcheon was held on by caulk only. The holes the screws go into are stripped.
What is the best way to attach the escutcheon to help deter water intrusion? The new one comes with a gasket. I read plumber’s putty might degrade the gasket.
Should I remove the gasket so I’m only caulking 1 thing to the tile?
I don’t think I should caulk the gasket into the escutcheon.
This a tub that doesn’t see much use, and when it does it is for baths, not showers.
I realize the whole setup needs more work, but that isn’t in the budget just yet.
Thanks for any advice.

Trying to replace a lot of the p traps in my house and faucets. When presented with a scenario where the pipe coming out of the wall is 1 1/2 and I’m trying to reduce it to 1 1/4 does it matter when I make the reduction? Would it be better to get a 1 1/2 inch p trap kit and use the reducing washer to connect to the 1 1/4 tailpipe on the sink?
On the first one I had to replace I bought 1 1/4 p trap kit by mistake so used the reducing washer on the wall nut to connect to 1 1/2 wall pipe to 1 1/4 p trap kit. Waiting on the plumbers putty to dry before I test but curious what people who know something about plumbing think. Trying to learn cause can’t afford to keep hiring plumbers. Tia

So the summery of her quirk on fandom says the following.
Rifle: Kaina's Quirk allows her to extend a rifle from her right elbow. She loads bullets into the rifle through a hole in her palm. Her firing range is 3 kilometers. Additionally, she can increase the velocity of her shots by dramatically increasing the rifles power output, causing the gun barrel to expand and bulge out, though this does risk the gun jamming.
She can also extend a tendril from her rifle that she can curl up to form a scope.
Rifle also allows her to pluck strands of her bi-colored hair, which she can twist and mold like Epoxy putty and harden to create various types of bullets (such as hollow-point bullets and curving bullets) that are as strong as any ammo. These hair bullets are capable of recording her voice and replaying the message after they hit.
Now this got me thinking, as shown in the anime she can make a scope and bi-pod for her rifle. But can she do anything else? Can she make things like a suppressor, muzzle brake, flash hider, ect. for her rifle to help her stay hidden for longer missions? This brough a few more question to mind like how loud her gun is? Is it naturally suppressed or is it as loud as a 50. cal. when fired? How many bullets can she hold at one time and can she form her arm in a way to make it hold more to surprise and enemy that though she could hold only one at a time? How small or big can her rifle be? Can it be as small as a hand gun and fire low cal. rounds or as big as a 4 bore rifle?
I though about all of these as I was taking a shower and I know the show doesn't answer many of these and was wondering if the manga did or if some people have some fan theories they would like to discuss.
Thank you for reading my ted talk.

Hey folks. I just got a Razer Naga V2 Pro mouse. I got it for the extra buttons on the side plate. I'm currently using the 12 button side plate and I'm in the process of setting up the shortcuts and binding them to the buttons. The is also a regular 2 button side plate and a 6 button side plate.
I'm talking it a little slow so I can get it optimized in the most efficient way, instead of doing 12 buttons all at once then struggling to get accustomed to it. My goal is to have all my commands under thumb and only need to leave the mouse for typing. Then I'm going to add a detached 10-key so I can enter numbers with my left hand.
So far the only drawback I feel is that the Naga V2 is too light. I understand it's a gaming mouse and light is better, but right now it's just too easy to move. I flipped my mose pad over and the resistance on the rubber side was a little too much.
Does anyone else use the same or similar mouse have the same issue? I'm considering popping it open and adding some plumber's putty covered in plastic wrap to add some weight.
I've turned down the sensitivity and that helps but I'd rather be to move across the screen in a short movement with more resistance instead. I just upgraded to a 43" monitor from a pair of 27"s so I'm getting used to having more area to cover at the same time.
The monitor is a Samsung 43" HK UHD TV. I'm doing 2D CAD so I don't need the high refresh rate that an ultra wide gaming monitor would have and it only cost me $280 from Best Buy delivered so the cost per square inch is a bargain. I remember when a 19" CRT monitor was pushing $1k and took up your whole desk.