Wednesday, October 26, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-11-02 03:23//

<<Unidentified Female>> --still not sure what was so very important that you had to get me up out of my nice warm bed in the middle of the night.
<<UserID:Webb>> Again, sorry about the hour. But I think you’ll agree, this is something that just couldn’t wait for the light of day.
<<Unidentified Female>> Well, if you say so, young man. I must say, you scared the stuffing out of me, pounding on my door like that. Woke me from a sound sleep -- I thought it was raiders for sure! Or maybe those ghouls from the REPCONN site, finally making their filthy move.
<<UserID:Webb>> Yes, all sorts of monsters get up to mischief at night. You’d know better than most.
<<Unidentified Female>> And just what is that supposed to mean?
<<UserID:Webb>> Oh, I’m sure it’ll hit you in a moment.
<<Unidentified Female>> Now listen here, Doctor, I don’t appreciate your tone. I’ve opened the doors of my establishment to you, gave you a place to stay when you came wandering in out of the wastes, and you’re pulling me out of my bed and making insinuations that I don’t appreciate from anyone, especially a stranger
Novac is better off without that sort of behavior. Just show me what’s so important, and we can both get back to our beds, where decent respectable sorts should be at this hour.
<<UserID:Webb>> Don’t worry, I’ll have you where you ought to be before you know it.
See? Here we are.
<<Unidentified Female>> In front of Dinky? I can’t see anything in this dark, and I don’t like being outside the town walls. What on earth did you bring me out here for?
<<UserID:Webb>> To show you something. Here...
*Canvas rustling.*
Carla Boone wanted me to show you my new hat.
<<Unidentified Female>> New hat? What’s this about the Boone woman? What sort of nonsen-
*A rifle shot, followed by the soft brief pattering of liquid falling on rocks and then a weight hitting the ground.*
<<UserID:Webb>> All for a thousand caps...
Jesus *Expletive Deleted* Christ.
//Recording Ends//

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-11-02 02:35//

<<UserID:Webb>> ...Okay, Webb, that’s IT. You have definitely got to lay off the Mentats.
Since I’m lying here in the room unable to sleep, also thanks to the aftereffects of the Mentats -- or maybe the Cateye -- I reviewed the last entry. I can’t believe there’s actually a record of me saying “chupacabra” without irony.
It was, of course, NOT a chupacabra, but that doesn’t make it any less strange. The brahmin killer turned out to be an honest-to-god super mutant. I didn’t realize the fact until I’d already shot him six ways from Sunday, but, in my defense, an enormous screaming man-thing had just appeared out of thin air less than five yards in front of me, carrying a goddamn mini-gun.
In those circumstances, I think I can justify myself a little of the old “shoot first, ask questions later”.
ED-E opened fire when I did, and his lasers slagged the rotator on the minigun before the mutant could spin the thing up to fire. He hefted the ruined gun like a club, roaring, but, when our combined shots felled the mutant, he fell forward, smashing the gun beneath his incredible bulk. 
So Noonan was actually correct about the machine gun, though it’s well beyond my capacity to repair. Too heavy and indiscriminate for my tastes anyway, but it probably would have been worth a nice pile of caps. As it was, I just stripped it for scrap.
Noonan had been right about something else, too -- the culprit HAD been invisible.
The mutant had been wearing one of those wrist-mounted RobCo cloaking units -- that’s why no one had been able to see him during the attacks, at least until ED-E somehow interfered with the cloaking field.
The device, called a StealthBoy -- apparently, whoever was in charge of naming products at RobCo wasn’t terribly big on creativity or variety -- still appears to be functioning, though it appears to have a limited battery life. I’ve placed it in a handy pocket for emergencies. I’ll have to use it sparingly, but, still, a nice little bonus out of the whole affair.
He also had a holotape stuffed into his tattered robes, which, upon review, contained a great deal of muttering and nonsense from the supermutant, who apparently blamed the McBrides’ brahmin for his insomnia. Well, he’s resting now, at least, poor mad thing.
Something else was odd about the supermutant, though, besides his cattle-killing proclivities. 
It’s not like my experience with supermutants has been vast -- we saw a few on isolated farms and homesteads around the vicinity of Broken Hills while patrolling there, and I even met one serving in a Ranger troop that helped us clear a large raider base west of New Reno, but that’s been pretty much it. 
But all of the ones I’ve met or seen in vids had skin that was some shade of green or gray. This one had an odd cobalt blue pigment, almost indigo, that would have made him difficult to spot in the dark even without the StealthBoy. Very curious -- I’ll have to ask around when I get to someplace with folks who might know something about mutants, see if there’s anything to the blue skin, or if this one was just a little more mutated than most.
I knocked at the McBrides’ door, as I figured all the shooting and hollering must have woken them, and told them briefly that they could sleep safely -- the brahmin killer was dead. They asked me in, Alice offering to put on a pot of coffee, but I declined, heading back to the motel room to try and get some sleep.
You see how well that’s worked out.
Reviewing that last entry, though, I realized that the mutant interrupted me before I could record the results of my meeting with Novac’s other sniper, Craig Boone. He didn’t have anything to add about Checkers, unfortunately, but that’s not to say he didn’t have some interesting things to say about the town.
Like I’d been starting to say, Boone’s another retired sniper like Vargas -- though we didn’t get around to discussing how “official” that retirement had actually been. Unlike Vargas, however, Boone doesn’t have a tremendous amount of love for the town -- in fact, he’s pretty sure that someone in Novac is responsible for the disappearance of his wife.
Now, call it narcissism if you will, but I seem to have a soft spot for the plight of veterans who have lost their wives, so I pushed him to find out more. 

He’s not what you’d call gregarious, but he did eventually share that he’d met his wife, Carla, in New Vegas, and they’d settled here. After some time, she disappeared -- he says he has reason to believe she was sold to slavers, and he wants to know who did it. He thinks that, since I’m new to town and wouldn’t seem to have any interest in her fate, I might be able to find out more from people than he can.
Boone concluded by asking me, if I DO find out who was responsible, to bring them around in front of the dinosaur, outside the town, while he’s on shift, and give him a signal. For the signal, he gave me his beret, and said just to put it on when I was sure I had the guilty party. He’d take care of the rest.
Some folks might say that snooping around to help someone else take revenge is probably not the best or most moral use of time. But my ma always used to say that people who live in glass vaults shouldn’t throw stones, and, seeing as I’m on the road hunting down a man that shot me in the head, I suppose I’m standing the entry tunnel of the glassiest vault ever built.
Besides, thinking about Jess and Callie, if I had the chance to...
Well. Suffice it to say, I told him I’d ask around.
I got some unsolicited advise right out of the gate, as it happened. When I left Boone’s perch, heading back down through the dinosaur, I came out on the small staircase in the side and was immediately waylaid by Noonan, who put a conspiratorial -- and reeking -- arm around my shoulders as soon as I came down the steps and pulled me into the shadows by the dinosaur’s tail.
Once we were safe -- from “Them”, I suppose -- he hissed into my ear that he’d listened in on the conversation between Boone and me, and he had some information for a trustworthy sort like myself.
Apparently, he’d seen a slaving deal go down in the lobby of the motel the night before Carla Boone had disappeared -- a slaving deal involving mole people, of course. I thanked him politely, gave him a little water from my canteen for his troubles -- poured into a tin cup, of course; I’m not letting those gums anywhere near my actual canteen -- and headed over to the McBrides’ place to wait on the cattle killer.
Huh. Which, as I said earlier, DID turn out to be an invisible monster with a machine gun.
Damn it. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but maybe I shouldn’t just ignore Noonan’s advice out of hand. Maybe there is some information in Crawford’s lobby.
Besides, it’s not like I’m getting any sleep anyway...
Come on, ED-E, we’re going for a little stroll. Stay quiet, but sound an alert if you see anyone coming, okay?
*Sounds of a door opening and shutting, then footsteps.*
<<UserID:Webb>> *Whispering* Hmmm, door’s locked. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
*Muted sounds of metal scrapping, followed by a click.*
Aha! Thank god for bobby pins. ED-E, stay put, keep your sensors humming. I’ll be inside.
*Another door opening and closing, followed by several minutes of intermittent paper rustling and drawers opening and closing.*
Huh. Nothing. Well, I don’t know what I was expecting. Poor Noonan -- after all, even a stopped clock is right twice a--
Wait. Looks like a...
Yep. Floor safe. Almost missed it. Probably nothing, but... Let’s give the old stethoscope an airing, just in case.
*Muted sounds of tumblers moving, followed by a click.*
There we are. Okay, let’s see... receipts for food... invoices for guests... bills of sale for--
*Sharp intake of breath.*
“Consul Officiorum”? Is this a Legion document? “Bargained and purchased from Jeannie May Crawford”...
*Teeth grinding.*
...”ownership and sale of the slave Carla Boone for the sum of one thousand bottle cap, and those of her...”
Oh sweet god... 
“Unborn child”? Carla was pregnant?
Jesus. Jesus *Expletive Deleted* Christ have mercy.
*Paper crumpling, followed by a lengthy silence and then a slow breath.*
Looks like I need to go have a few words with Miss Crawford.
See if she wants to take a walk, maybe.
Signing off.
//Recording Ends//

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-11-01 23:48//

<<UserID:Webb>> *whispering* Good gravy, it’s getting cold in the evenings. Glad I grabbed this coat back in Primm.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010000110110111101101111011011000110010101110010
<<UserID:Webb>> Hey, keep it down, Eyeball! Haven’t you ever been on surveillance detail before?
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010101000110100001101001011100110010000001110101
<<UserID:Webb>> Look, just... maintain radio silence, okay?
Just in case we DO get ripped to shreds by roaming ghouls... or eaten by Noonan’s chupathingy... I wanted to make a record of it as a warning to the town, so I’m going to keep this thing running. May as well fill up the silence with an entry while I’m at it.
Going to keep whispering, though. Got to keep the sound down. Can’t STOP whispering, actually. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken more Mentats tonight. Still, better than sitting blind in the dark. Also popped some Cateye -- the combo is making the night much clearer, but DEAR GOD those Mentats make my knuckles itch.
Shhhh. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. Gotta keep it down.
*Sound of scratching.*
Ahh, much better. Cateye’s good stuff, too, a hyper-concentrated synthetic compound of retinol that really kicks your night vision up a notch. Probably some other active ingredients, I’m not sure -- always seemed to me like the drug regulation industry of the Old World really went to hell in the last years before the bombs.
Maybe I should just stick to the Cateye in the future. Got a nice little stock of it this afternoon, along with a tidy pile of other chems. When I headed back out into the more rambling areas of Nova outside the motel, I ran into a young woman with two bodyguards who identified herself as Ada Straus.
Also called herself a doctor. If she’s a doctor, then I’m the *Expletive Deleted* Surgeon General of Shady Sands.
Don’t get me wrong, always happy to see other sources of medical attention in the wastes. And yeah, I’m just a glorified combat medic, but at least I had real training from real doctors in Vault City.
Got a fancy certificate and everything, too. All ash now, but still.
But the way it is out here, anyone with a pair of forceps and a scavved stethoscope calls themselves a doctor. Wouldn’t trust this one to suture a cadaver. Probably why she needs those mercs -- to fend off malpractice complaints.
God, Webb, you sound like an ass. Reign it in.
Still, what she DID have was a decent supply of meds and other chems. Since I’m already sounding like an ass, I’ll just come out and say it: I figured they’d be better off with me than with her. I swapped her the patched-up laser rifle I’d found on that robed ghoul in exchange for a huge chunk of her store of chems, including several bottles of Cateye pills, some stims, a decent supply of Med-X to replenish my dwindling stock, more anti-septics, and -- in anticipation of what might be waiting for me at the REPCONN site -- all of her Rad-X tablets and bags of RadAway solution.
Like I said, right now, I’m just glad for the Cateye. Glad glad glad.
*Sound of teeth grinding.*
Spent some time after that asking the other residents of Novac about Checkers and the REPCONN situation, but didn’t turn up anything new.
Did find a decent communal workshop area in an old filling station near the motel. Didn’t want to swipe anything belonging to the town, but there was a bench with a loading press and a vice, along with a little crucible and a burner hooked to a gas tank with tubing, duct tape, and a fair amount of prayers and good intentions.
Now that I had slimmed down my kit to just the revolver and rifle, both chambered for .357 rounds, I figured I’d take a bit of time to slim down my ammo reserves as well. I broke down all the ammunition I had, separated out the casings, powder, primer, and bullets, and spent half an hour or so recasting the lead and copper into .357 jacketed flat points, packing each one with a little extra powder besides, as I had some left over.
Never hurts to have a little extra punch when you’re facing down a pack of charging ghouls, right?
My pockets and ammo belts newly weighed down with custom lead, I went back to exploring the rest of the down. I eventually found my way to the brahmin ranch which had been the subject of the recent attacks. I knocked at the door and was greeted by a very pleasant couple, both probably between ten and twenty years my senior, who welcomed me inside. 
I quickly learned, over the glass of good cold well water that was pressed into my hand, that they were Dusty and Alice McBride, and the rumors were true -- every night for the last several nights, something had been killing one of their brahmin right around midnight. If it kept up, they’d be out of brahmin, Novac would be out of meat, and the McBrides would be out of a living.
I asked if what they had done with the last brahmin killed, hoping I might be able to do a necropsy and confirm that it was the work of ghouls, but Alice simply pointed towards the kitchen.
Waste not, want not, I suppose.
The McBrides then insisted I join them for dinner. I put up a token protest, but the smells drifting from the stove just reminded me how long it had been since I’d had anything other than gecko meat, pre-war tins of processed garbage, or mess hall stew -- I caved in almost immediately.
Alice cooked the steaks just the way I remember my ma making them -- dusted with a little flour and fried in a pan with tallow -- and they were delicious. The majority of the brahmin had been cut into strips and was hanging over a smoking fire in the McBride’s side yard.
Over dinner, I asked them for more details about the town. Neither had seen Checkers or his gang, and neither knew much about the REPCONN facility other than it had been a prime scavving site before the ghouls invaded.
They had a little more of interest to tell me about the attacks on their brahmin. They’d heard noises during the attacks, possibly gunfire, which complicates matters. I still refuse to believe it’s a machine-gun-wielding chupacabra. Never seen any far-gone ghoulies using firearms, though.
Could still be related to what’s going on up at REPCONN, though. Might be some regular ghouls in with the ferals, who come down at night to do a little poaching.
I finished up my steak and told the McBrides I’d swing back by around midnight to see if I could spot anything suspicious -- least I could do in exchange for the meal.
That’s where I am now, out back of the McBride’s place keeping an eye on the brahmin pens. Nothing so far.
After I exchanged “good evening”s with the McBrides, I still had some time to kill before the poacher showed up, so I drifted back over to the dinosaur to wait for the guards to change shifts. Briscoe was closing up as I got there, but he waived cheerfully and asked if I wanted to play a hand or two of caravan after he locked up the till. I agreed, and we whiled away some time building trade routes and swapping caps. Briscoe tossed me a bottle of sarsaparilla as we played, pulling one out for himself. Nice guy. I’ll be sure to send some business his way, if I meet some likely looking folks on the road.
Around twenty-one hundred hours, a dour-looking man in a red beret entered the store, nodded to Briscoe, gave me a brief once-over, and went up the stairs to the sniper’s nest. A few minutes later, Vargas came down, said a brief goodnight to Briscoe and me, and headed off to his room.
I finished up my game with Briscoe, slugged back the last of my sarsaparilla, collected my winnings, and thanked him for the hospitality, then headed up the stairs to talk with the second sniper.
Definitely less chatty than Vargas. Name is Craig Boone, and, as it turns out, he has a rather different point of view on this town than his buddy. In fact, he--
Wait a minute. What was that?
There! Did you see that? By that boulder!
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010011010110111101110100011010010110111101101110
<<UserID:Webb>> I’d swear it was... Wait. There. Footsteps! That’s definitely footsteps.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010000110110110001101111011000010110101101101001
<<UserID:Webb>> Almost positive there’s something over there. I’m going to get a little closer, see what I can--
*Hissing static of a stealth field deactivating.*
*Sounds of gunfire commence just as the recording ends abruptly.*
//Recording Ends//

Saturday, October 8, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-11-01 16:17//

<<UserID:Webb>> When Jess got pregnant, we spent some time deciding where we were going to settle down. One of the first arguments was over whether we should settle in a city, or out on a ranch or farm.
Towns like Novac are the reason we settled on a farm.
When I finally hauled myself out of the bath, got dressed, and opened the door of my room, there was an old man crouched immediately outside. He scuttled backwards quickly, but he had clearly been listening at the door. Before I could ask him anything, he blurted that he’d heard me coming out of the pipes and accused me of being a lakelurk in disguise. I tried to protest -- or, let’s be honest, say anything coherent after being accused of being a lake monster by a septuagenarian eavesdropper -- but he snarled and went for what he called his sticking knife.
At that moment, ED-E floated out behind me, trilling its little battle cry as its laser array warmed up, and the old man stared at it, then relaxed almost immediately. The knife disappeared again into his food-stained clothes, and a broad smile spread across his face. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially that he could see now that I wasn’t one of “them”.
I never did manage to figure out who “they” were -- something worse than lakelurks, apparently. What I COULD discern was that this man, who I eventually learned was named Noonan and apparently nicknamed “No Bark” by the other residents of Novac, had some serious psychological issues, likely stemming from physical trauma. Broad scars on his head were visible through his tangled mass of gray hair, there was a noticeable indent in his left temple, and one of his eyes was slightly lazy, drifting in and out of alignment with its twin. His beard was tangled and stained yellow from tobacco juice.
God, at least I hope it was tobacco.
When I had calmed ED-E down and delicately inquired further about Noonan’s rapid change of opinion, he told me -- with a wink that would give small children nightmares -- that he always knew he could trust someone who wasn’t afraid of looking crazy, and, since I had a floating robot wearing socks on its head, I must be all right. According to Noonan, it’s the normal people you have to worry about.
All things considered, I’m glad I’d decided to do laundry.
Now that he had decided to bring me into his confidence, Noonan became a gushing spring of information, delivered scant inches from my face in a harsh whisper that reeked of tooth decay and spattered my cheeks with a fine spray of spittle.
Aside from the nebulous and apparently omnipresent threat of “them”, Noonan proceeded to warn me about every other threat that he knew, which, poor man, seem to be omnipresent in his mind. Even the real threats, like the ghouls at the REPCONN facility Crawford had mentioned, became fantastical threats through the lens of Noonan’s delusion. There weren’t ghouls at the facility -- there were Communist specters, intent on launching themselves into space to vandalize the moon in the image of Lenin, painting it pink besides. The ghouls that had been killing the local cattle were something else entirely, some sort of monstrous livestock vampire he called a “chupacabra”.
Even better, this enormous, two-headed vampire thing was invisible, because he hadn’t seen it when he’d seen it. Riiiiiiiiiight. 
Also, it had a machine gun.
In the midst of the rambling, I did manage to get some words out of him to explain what had happened to the poor man. Apparently, he’d been attacked by radscorpions and took several stings to the head. Even without the venom, that sort of injury can scramble a man’s brains. WITH radscorpion venom, especially introduced so close to the spine, he’s lucky not to be paralyzed or dead. I suppose, compared to that, Commie ghosts and gun-toting vampires are a blessing.
I also turned up one other interesting fact: Noonan had seen Checkers and his crew come through town, and he even remembered them specifically talking to one of the town guards, the one with the mustache. Of course, he also told me that the checkered coat was intended as camouflage in defense against aliens, and that they had eventually been chased out of town BY aliens, but at least it was a start.
I thanked Noonan for the information, and pressed some tins of Cram on him, despite his objections. Maybe he’ll just throw them away -- hell, maybe he’ll become convinced they’re out to eat his spleen -- but I worry about folks in his condition. I hope he’ll eat them.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010101000110100001101001011100110010000001110101
<<UserID:Webb>> Thanks, Eyeball. Helpful as always. You know I don’t speak “beep”, right?
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010011100110111101110100001000000111010001101000
<<UserID:Webb>> If I find out you’ve been making fun of me, I’m going to leave the socks on you for good.
After parting ways with Noonan, I walked across the courtyard of the motel to the dinosaur statue, heading up the stairs to the door tucked into the side of its belly. The door was propped open by a small rubber replica of the dinosaur, allowing the cool November afternoon breeze to blow into the dusky interior of the building.
Stepping inside, I was immediately greeted by a cheerful bald man who introduced himself as Cliff Briscoe and quickly informed me that I was “just in time” to snap up the last of the Dinky souvenirs. Seeing my blank look, he continued to explain that the dinosaur we were standing in was apparently named “Dinky”, and he had just a few of the tiny model dinosaurs left for lucky customers like me.
I peered around the interior of the shop, seeing miniature dinosaurs peeking out from behind items on almost every shelf, and then asked him if he meant the same “limited stock” he had pressed into use as a doorstop. He deflated a bit, still smiling, and shrugged, admitting that he had thousands of the damn things -- they’d been here along with the dinosaur pre-war, and he’d inherited them along with the rest of the shop from the previous owner, who had also been unable to unload them.
Still, the things were only one cap, and the poor guy was so haplessly likable that I told him I’d take one. Besides, Callie would have loved it. I tucked it into the side pocket of my satchel with the other bits of my non-trading gear, and then took a look at the rest of his stick, which was surprisingly decent and varied.
I opened up my own bags of salvage, and we set to haggling and trading. After a good forty minutes or so, I was several hundred caps richer, and my bags were a good deal lighter. I had also traded the various calibers of ammunition I wasn’t using for a nice pile of .357 rounds that would fit both my revolver and my rifle, and I swapped for more non-perishable foodstuffs and some fairly impressive new parts for both weapons as well, including a custom lever-action for the rifle, a beautiful polished maple stock to replace the old splintered one -- I swear, Jackals chew on their weapons when they’re not eating poor wasters -- and a longer barrel for the revolver.
I always look at my weapons as my insurance policy, and, in my experience, it’s a worthwhile investment to increase your coverage.
Briscoe seemed fairly pleased himself with the new stock he’d acquired. He began sorting it and reorganizing it on his shelves, humming happily, and he pointed me up the stairs to the sniper’s nest when I asked. I repacked my own kit into a blissfully lighter load, hefted it onto my back and into ED-E’s storage module, and climbed the narrow interior staircase to another door.
When I opened it, I blinked against the sunlight after my time in the dim shop. I could see why the guards used this spot as a sniper’s nest -- the view of the town and the surrounding roads was impressive. Of course, there was an enormous blindspot to the back of the dinosaur’s mouth, looking west. I suppose it’s mostly hills and mountains that way.
Still, if any forces sweep into Novac from the west, these people are screwed.
The man on the platform glanced at me over his shoulder as I came through the door, then coughed and spat off the side of the dinosaur. He turned back to the road, saying he’d spotted me when I first came around the south bend in the road, and that it was a rare thing to see a lone trader with a robot and no brahmin. 
I told him I was a doctor and not a trader, so that probably explained it. That drew a begrudging chuckle, and he turned back to me, introducing himself as Manny Vargas. He had a red beret with an NCR badge, of the type worn by recon and sniper units, and a mustache, just as Noonan had described.
The good news was that he had seen Checkers and his entourage. The bad news was, of course, that he wanted a favor first.
I swear, if anyone in the Mojave ever offers to just answer my questions or point me in the right direction without asking for something first, I’m going to kiss them right on the goddamn mouth.
Vargas said that he and the other sniper, who takes the night shift, used to be in 1st Recon -- a hell of a sniper unit -- but they’d left after some incident here in the Mojave and settled here. Vargas had grown fond of the town, and he stated that the ghouls -- NOT Communist ghosts -- drifting into town were an even bigger threat in his mind than Crawford, especially since they’re coming from the snipers’ blindspot.
I knew that was going to be a problem.
He wants me to check out the facility, and see if there’s any way to stop the ghouls from coming this way. He says that he and the other sniper can’t leave their post long enough to check out the REPCONN facility, and there isn’t anyone else in town he’d consider capable of the trip.
So, in other words, in exchange for a minor piece of information, all I need to do is travel to a possibly irradiated pre-war test site that is crawling with feral ghouls, investigate it without being torn to pieces, and return to fill in the highly trained sniper with the .308 rifle who has remained safely behind in town.
Sounds like a fair deal.
Christ, I hate the Mojave.
Ah well. No sense setting off to get eaten by ghouls this late in the afternoon. I may as well stay the night and poke around town a little more in the meantime, maybe see if anyone else saw Checkers and would be less miserly with the information. Possibly the night-shift sniper?
Heh. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even catch a glimpse of Noonan’s invisible chupacabra.
Signing off.
//Recording Ends//