The Tale of Grim Crimmins, the Old Man at the Farm
Aug 23, 2023 7:25:31 GMT -5
Cdr. Crimmins, BB, and 5 more like this
Post by gus169 on Aug 23, 2023 7:25:31 GMT -5
(Revelation)
I recall it was raining that night. I was sitting at the bar in some rundown Sake joint in the south quarter of Shenzen, on furlough burning cells on forgetting the last job, when I first heard the name. The guy tending the bar was huge. Ex-military. You could just tell. He could see I wasn't looking for a chat when I came in, so he just kept topping me up till the crowd started to thin.
After a while, most of the patrons cleared out and he came over, wiping the bar and whistling a tune I swear I remember, but I just couldn't place. It still bugs me.
"How you doin' there buddy?" He said, in a voice like a subway train. "I think you're in about half a bottle now".
"I don't know any more man. Why does it all have to be so complicated?" I said.
He chuckled. "Tell me about it brother. When you take up the biz?"
"It feels like I've been doing it forever friend" I said. He chuckled again.
He went over to get the Sake bottle and his stool and came back. Topping me up once more, he sat down and said "This one's one the house". Then he told me a story. I think it went something like this.
His grandfather was an engineer. One of the many contracted to work on the Springfield Dam and involved in the initial survey. Of course, the Port and the Metro didn't even exist then. All subsequent development. Inevitable I suppose. Anyway, these were some of the first guys to set foot in that valley, when the river was still flowing naturally.
The terrain had all been generated procedurally of course, stock standard, straight out the factory, so it shocked everyone to find a small farm there. The boffins checked the code, over and over, but no good explanation was ever found. So, while the engineers reported it back up the line, they had a big job to do, and a deadline, so it was weeks before anyone even tried going over there.
Eventually, a directive came from head office to send a party over to investigate the farm. Short straws were drawn and the big fella's Grandad was one of the unlucky ones. Eight of them set off in two of the big dumptrucks, following the river bank. They hadn't got far when they noticed smoke trails, silently starting to trace a parabola out from the farm in their direction. Grandpa had seen this kind of trail before and instinctively cranked the wheel to the right, plunging the dumptruck straight into the river. The driver of the other truck was a young Fijian chap, fresh from university - class A mathematician, but real green. He was looking in his rearview, baffled, when the shell hit his vehicle. The 30 ton truck was obliterated. Just like . . . gone.
The guys in Granpa's truck bailed out in time and dragged themselves spluttering on to the bank, a Dutchman called Marten launching into an indecipherable stream of abuse while another of them just stared at something up the slope. Soon enough, they had all turned to follow his stunned gaze. The Dutchman's volume dropped to a whisper, but the swearing continued.
Standing on the crest of the rise was a young boy, bobbing with silent laughter and pointing at the river.
"Nice park!" he spat, "but smarter than driving it up there!" pointing now to the farm. "Crimmins knows what you mob are up to, and he's not happy. He's not even sad. He's GRIM!"
All four of the men that walked back to the construction site that day, when interviewed separately, quoted that word for word. And all four reported that the boy then simply faded away, "like a dimmer switch". Within 20 minutes a massive orbital strike was called in on the farm, wiping it out completely, along with a large chunk of the terrain. The company did a full sweep and found nothing.
So, like any responsible company, they just patched it all up, built another, larger farm complex there, and went back to finishing off the dam. From there, according to most accounts, the Springfield expansion has gone from strength to strength. Nobody pays much attention to the few, though nigglingly consistent accounts of unexplained 'death from above', the 'old man at the farm', and the strange recurrence of that name, 'Crimmins'.
I recall it was raining that night. I was sitting at the bar in some rundown Sake joint in the south quarter of Shenzen, on furlough burning cells on forgetting the last job, when I first heard the name. The guy tending the bar was huge. Ex-military. You could just tell. He could see I wasn't looking for a chat when I came in, so he just kept topping me up till the crowd started to thin.
After a while, most of the patrons cleared out and he came over, wiping the bar and whistling a tune I swear I remember, but I just couldn't place. It still bugs me.
"How you doin' there buddy?" He said, in a voice like a subway train. "I think you're in about half a bottle now".
"I don't know any more man. Why does it all have to be so complicated?" I said.
He chuckled. "Tell me about it brother. When you take up the biz?"
"It feels like I've been doing it forever friend" I said. He chuckled again.
He went over to get the Sake bottle and his stool and came back. Topping me up once more, he sat down and said "This one's one the house". Then he told me a story. I think it went something like this.
His grandfather was an engineer. One of the many contracted to work on the Springfield Dam and involved in the initial survey. Of course, the Port and the Metro didn't even exist then. All subsequent development. Inevitable I suppose. Anyway, these were some of the first guys to set foot in that valley, when the river was still flowing naturally.
The terrain had all been generated procedurally of course, stock standard, straight out the factory, so it shocked everyone to find a small farm there. The boffins checked the code, over and over, but no good explanation was ever found. So, while the engineers reported it back up the line, they had a big job to do, and a deadline, so it was weeks before anyone even tried going over there.
Eventually, a directive came from head office to send a party over to investigate the farm. Short straws were drawn and the big fella's Grandad was one of the unlucky ones. Eight of them set off in two of the big dumptrucks, following the river bank. They hadn't got far when they noticed smoke trails, silently starting to trace a parabola out from the farm in their direction. Grandpa had seen this kind of trail before and instinctively cranked the wheel to the right, plunging the dumptruck straight into the river. The driver of the other truck was a young Fijian chap, fresh from university - class A mathematician, but real green. He was looking in his rearview, baffled, when the shell hit his vehicle. The 30 ton truck was obliterated. Just like . . . gone.
The guys in Granpa's truck bailed out in time and dragged themselves spluttering on to the bank, a Dutchman called Marten launching into an indecipherable stream of abuse while another of them just stared at something up the slope. Soon enough, they had all turned to follow his stunned gaze. The Dutchman's volume dropped to a whisper, but the swearing continued.
Standing on the crest of the rise was a young boy, bobbing with silent laughter and pointing at the river.
"Nice park!" he spat, "but smarter than driving it up there!" pointing now to the farm. "Crimmins knows what you mob are up to, and he's not happy. He's not even sad. He's GRIM!"
All four of the men that walked back to the construction site that day, when interviewed separately, quoted that word for word. And all four reported that the boy then simply faded away, "like a dimmer switch". Within 20 minutes a massive orbital strike was called in on the farm, wiping it out completely, along with a large chunk of the terrain. The company did a full sweep and found nothing.
So, like any responsible company, they just patched it all up, built another, larger farm complex there, and went back to finishing off the dam. From there, according to most accounts, the Springfield expansion has gone from strength to strength. Nobody pays much attention to the few, though nigglingly consistent accounts of unexplained 'death from above', the 'old man at the farm', and the strange recurrence of that name, 'Crimmins'.
