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t4t4t · 2 years ago

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...The Roman Empire continues to decompose rapidly-but not rapidly enough for the resisters. Every year brings new surprises; every season more springs pop, more wheels get jammed. But the artificial worm lingers on, and it keeps on lingering far too long for any resistance movement to remain what it was.

It must be remembered that machines have the perverse ability to do the same thing the same way for as long as they operate. The ability is built into machines. But people do not have this ability. They change, they die, they are replaced by others who perceive and behave differently.

The early resisters have some clear and powerful conceptions; the generations that follow them eventually invert every one of these conceptions and turn the initial commitment on its head.

In retrospect we can see that the paths of betrayal are already paved before anyone has recourse to them, but this tells why the betrayal follows these paths, not why the betrayal takes place. I think the explanation is to be sought in the Leviathan first, and only secondly in the baggage inherited by the initial resisters.

The Leviathan places human beings in a situation they do not meet anywhere else in the Biosphere except in rare places like Sumer. In Sumer, the weather dried the fields up or else washed them away, not once or twice in a lifetime, but over and over again. Nowhere else, not in lands that border on ice nor in lands that border on sand, does Nature force human beings to become mirror images of their disasters. The Leviathan places every person it can reach in such a situation. Its tribute collectors, recruiters, procurers, rapists and cheaters beat on people with the regularity of a clock, forcing them into constant defensive responses which gradually also take on the regularity of a clock.

The rebels who take part in the feasts of Agape, in the festivals of rebirth and rejuvenation, suddenly or gradually withdraw from tasks expected of them by the guardians of Roman order.

The State responds to this withdrawal by maligning, persecuting and incarcerating resisters, even forcing some of them into arenas with unfed lions for the amusement of the circus crowds.

The resisters try to protect themselves by forging links outside the Agape feasts, even by seeking protectors among the guards. This is understandable in view of the persecution, but we can already see, with hindsight, that such links, which do not grow out of love and are not based on sharing, will in time form a noose which will strangle the initial commitment. The resisters are forming links which will bind them into what militants of our day will call The Organization.

Initially the rebellious visionaries were at one with every life-affirming strain, and they apparently borrowed freely from all of them. But as soon as they define themselves as Christians, they have to make it clear, to their patrons and to themselves, just how they differ from the followers of Moses, from enthusiasts of Mithra, from celebrants of Isis, Osiris and Serapis. And as soon as they make this clear, they have to convince themselves that their own group has the most valid or the truest conception; if another group had it they would not have very good reasons for remaining Christians.

Once they turn away from other resisters, it does not take the Christians long to turn against them. The Christians are no longer at one with every life-affirming group. First they turn against the way others affirm life, gradually they turn against life.

At this point they find ready-made formulas — the paths paved for them by forerunners. “There shall be no other gods before me.” This puts an end to Isis, Osiris and Serapis. The Christians add insult to injury by calling former friends Idolaters. This is shouted in extremely bad faith.

The Christians know perfectly well that Isis and her brother are powerful symbols of primordial events, symbols which the Christians have attached to their own Jesse, whom they now call Jesus.

They are shouting Idolatry without looking into their own baggage, without seeing that the abstraction they’ve inherited from the old Book, the King of Kings, the abstraction of Lugalzaggizi, symbolizes nothing primordial or even natural. They are shouting Idolatry without remembering that they are the ones lugging around an Idol to every part of the world.

The Organization seems to have its own logic. Some members are better than others at explaining away the ido in their closet, and these quickly become the Sheperds; the title of those who do not explain things so well is obvious. Soon there’s talk of shepherds who mislead their flocks, of false prophets. But who can tell which prophet is false? Only the most conscious of the Shepherds; these are now called Presbyters and Deacons. But even Deacons err, and their errors can only be spotted by a Deacon of Deacons, a Bishop.

Each group of participants in an Agape feast becomes a Church. The past engagements of many of these Christians predispose them to accept some kind of hierarchic arrangement. They had though of Osiris as a Leader with Apostles. Many of them had thought of themselves as followers of the leader Moses.

Even so, to many of them the Churches are starting to look like provinces of the Roman Empire; all that missing is the Emperor. And an armored Roman who manages to rise to the post of Bishop now announces that the groupings are real churches only if their bishops are “appointed by Peter and Paul," he means by a self-appointed spokesman for Peter and Paul, like himself.

* * *

The resisters’ descendants have backed away from the monster’s mirror image into its jaws.

Many of them know it, and the shepherds have to prevaricated quickly and sharply in order not to lose their flocks. They borrow Darius’s trick of wearing Ahura Mazda as an outer garment.

The Hierarchs present themselves as the door to salvation. But everyone can see that the hierarchs lead nowhere, that they maintain themselves in power over congregations just like Roman officials.

So the Church officials borrow another trick from the Persians. They locate Salvation in the realm of the dead. And who can be sure the Bishop is not the door to such a salvation?

The church will go far along the same road, but already there are resisters who dissociate themselves from Christians for the same reasons earlier resisters withdrew from Imperial Rome.

Visionaries called Gnostics reject all attempts to organize counter-monsters in order to oppose the monster that shackles the world. They say the Archons, especially the Archon of Archons in the old testament, do not only enslave the body but also hold captive the spirit of human beings, encase the spirit in armor, put people to sleep. The Gnostics aim to remove the armor, to wake from sleep, and they insist that such awakening can only come if one remembers the primordial events that gave rise to the monster, not if one forgets.

In Anatolia, where Cybele once danced, the spirit of the initial resistance is kept alive and deepened by a large circle around prophetesses Priscilla and Maximilia and a man called Montanus.

These people are convinced the empire is falling and do all they can to help it fall quickly, going so far as to refuse to produce children for the Roman legions and plantations. They interpret “the kingdom of god is within you” to mean that every man as well as every woman is a potential visionary. They will later be liquidated by the Christian Church for their failure to repress the humanity of women. The official Christians do not acknowledge this group’s prophetesses, and refer to the group as Montanists, after the man. Those in Priscilla’s circle consider the lies and compromises of the official Christians abominations and are convinced such Christians will find Paradise neither in this world nor in any other.

Many other resisters turn away from the Romanization of the Christians. Some rejoin the circles around Isis and continue to affirm and experience the joy of Earth’s generation and regeneration....

AHAL

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intheairbike · 2 years ago

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Electric Bike Winter Maintenance Guide!

The weather is getting colder and colder, presumably many friends are still rain or shine, and can't bear to close the car. If a worker wants to do a good job, he must first sharpen his tools. Electric bicycles can be said to be sports machines. To make this machine exert its maximum power, you must pay attention to the maintenance of your car when riding in winter. A comprehensive inspection of your car after leaving the car can not only prolong the service life of the car. It can eliminate many hidden dangers and improve safety! Let's take a look at the winter maintenance guide for electric bike!

Maintenance description and purpose of each part of the bicycle:

1. Head

Maintenance description: Check whether the bearings at the upper and lower ends of the head tube can be used normally, clean and oil the bearings.

Maintenance purpose: to clean the dust and sludge of the bearings in the head tube, to prevent bearing damage, rust and abnormal noise.

2. Axis

Maintenance description: Check whether the center shaft can be used normally, clean and oil the bearings.

Maintenance purpose: to clean the dust and sludge in the bottom bracket and bottom bracket to prevent damage, rust and abnormal noise of the bottom bracket.

3. Wheel front and rear hubs

Maintenance description: Check whether the hub can be used normally, clean and oil the balls in the hub.

Maintenance purpose: Check whether the hub can be used normally, clean and oil the balls in the hub.

4. Wheel set adjustment (front and rear wheels)

Maintenance description: Put the wheel set on the ring adjustment table to check whether it is deflected, and adjust it according to the situation (Nalong)

Maintenance purpose: to reduce the deflection of the wheel set to make the handling better.

5. Transmission system (front and rear derailleurs, flywheels, chains, cranksets)

Maintenance description: Check the transmission system: whether the front and rear derailleurs, flywheels, chains, and chainrings can be used normally, clean the dust and sludge, replace with new oil, and adjust the gear.

Maintenance purpose: reduce excessive wear caused by sludge and other sundries, and prolong the service life of flywheel and chain.

6. Frame

Care Description: Clean the body and remove stains.

Electric bike maintenance process

Step 1: Clean the Dirt

If the body is not very dirty, just wipe it with a damp soft cloth; if there are many mud spots, you can wash it with a water hose. It should be noted that the pressure of the water column should not be too high. At the same time, the rotating parts such as triaxial and headset cannot be washed directly with water. A toothbrush can be used for places that cannot be wiped by a rag, and the upper tube of the front fork should also be removed with a toothbrush to avoid scratches during shock absorbers. Both the rim and the brakes need to be cleaned to remove the impurities embedded in the brakes and reduce unnecessary wear and tear. Brakes and shift cables should also be wiped clean. If there is a lot of mud and sand, the wire tube can be removed and the internal chain can be cleaned with the spray pressure of the anti-rust agent. The most dust-absorbing place on the whole car, wipe off the stains with a rag. If it is very dirty, you can use an anti-rust agent to clean it. Remember to dry the chain after completion to facilitate subsequent chain oiling.

Step 2: Lubricate

Brake and shifting line pipes need to be re-oiled after cleaning, and grease lubricating oil with weak fluidity is suitable for use on the line pipes. The chain is an important part of the transmission, and it also has high requirements for oiling. Generally, 5-6 drops can be added at a time. After adding, let the chain fully rotate, and at the same time bring lubricating oil to each tooth piece, and dry the chain with a rag after adding. After cleaning the upper tube of the front fork, special lubricating oil should be used to keep the front fork moving smoothly in winter.

Step 3: Prevent Rust

After riding, it is recommended to apply some anti-rust agent to the various screws and transfer points on the bicycle. Firstly, it is anti-rust, and secondly, it is also good for future disassembly.

Electric Bike Winter Maintenance Guide!

#electric bike #Maintenance Guide

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sanerontheinside · 9 months ago

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for smut writers my beloved

LATHE is a machine for cutting , sanding, and more that rotates. think of a potter’s wheel for example! but it is also used for metalworking and woodcutting. here it is rotating a piece of copper:

LAVE is from the Latin lavare, meaning ‘to wash’

iykyk

IT’S NOT ‘PEEKED’ MY INTEREST

OR ‘PEAKED’

BUT PIQUED

‘PIQUED MY INTEREST’

THIS HAS BEEN A CAPSLOCK PSA

#go forth and write filthy with it

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propelindustries100 · 4 months ago

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Sand & Aggregates Washing Systems | Propel Industries

WASHING SYSTEMS

SAND WASHER

Bucket type sand washing equipment can improve the sand quality. Propel Sand Washers adopt advanced technology for high efficiency sand washing...

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ECO WASH

Propel Eco Wash provides consistent solutions for all material and mineral washing needs. It offers excellent reliability, ease of transport and fast onsite installation. It...

PRO WASH

Propel Pro Wash series is designed to ensure maximum efficiency from the washing plant. It facilitates the extremely accurate separation of silts and clays from the final washed...

THICKENER

Propel AVTH Thickener Series is designed for seamless integration with Propel washing solutions for efficient water treatment. With flocculent delivery system, it ensures...

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cone-crusher · 7 months ago

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XS Series Wheel Bucket Sand Washing Machine

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jaw-stone-crusher · 7 months ago

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XS Series Wheel Bucket Sand Washing Machine

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briamichellewrites · 10 months ago

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Flashback: The band remembered their idea of bringing Bria to the beach. They would have to carry her because her wheelchair couldn’t be in the sand. That was fine. She loved the feeling of the sand and the smell of the water. They brought her machine with them, so she could communicate with them. She sat with her back against Mike’s chest. The boys went in and out of the water while she watched. Joe cupped his hands with water and brought it back to her.

Mike helped her feel it. Her face and eyes lit up with happiness. They laughed. Even though she couldn’t join them in playing, they still included her in what they were doing. She had a hat on to protect her from the sun. When it was time to eat, Brad helped him set up her feeding tube. She asked if the water was cold. It was a little but it wasn’t too bad.

“I like watching you guys playing. It was a good idea to come here.”

That’s what they thought, too. They saw the happiness on her face. Rob put sand into her hand, so she could feel it. He also showed her rocks he found lying around. She saw birds flying in and out of the water looking for food, children playing, adults walking around and dogs playing in the water. There was also a baby playing in the sand nearby. He was being carefully watched over by his mother to make sure he didn’t put anything in his mouth.

On his head was a little hat to protect his head and face from the sun. The mother noticed her looking over at them, so she said hello. Mike said hello back to them. Did they want to say hello to her baby? If that was okay with her. Yeah. She brought her baby over to them. Bria used her machine to communicate. He is very cute. How old is he?

“Thank you. He is six months.”

“I am Bria. This is my husband, Mike. We are with our friends for the afternoon.”

“It’s nice to meet both of you. I’m Megan and this is Benjamin.”

Benjamin and Megan. She would have to remember that. Later, they were in the bathroom changing her diaper. People complained about not having changing tables in men’s rooms, but they never said anything about changing adult diapers in dirty handicapped bathrooms. Thankfully, they had space to lay down. Elisa, who had joined them for their beach day, helped him. Her diaper wasn’t too dirty, which helped. Elisa talked to her to distract her.

The cement floor was hurting her body. She put a towel under her head but she still had a look of pain on her face. He went as quickly as he could. Finally, it was over. She could go back to being in the sand. They brought her back over to everyone after he washed his hands in the dirty sink.

Once she was back with everyone, she cheered up again. They had the idea of going out for dinner, but they wanted to make sure she was okay with that. How was she feeling? She was having a lot of fun. Good. They were happy to hear that! She thought she would be okay going out to dinner. Mike told her that if she became too tired to stay, to let him know. They would not be offended at all.

They promised her that. Okay. After gathering everything up, Brad carried her back to her wheelchair. He then placed her gently into it, while Rob helped put her machine back in its place. Rob then wheeled her over to where everyone was.

“No crazy driving.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Mike and Brad laughed.

“What did she say?”

Rob repeated what she said with a smile. Elisa asked if he was a crazy driver. Bria joked that it was Chester and Phoenix they needed to be careful about. They laughed. She then asked for her blanket. They took it out of her book bag and placed it over her lap. Thank you. At the restaurant, she ordered a Diet Coke without ice.

Thank you. Mike had another meal in her bag, but he didn’t know if it was okay to use it. He asked the waiter when he came back with their drinks. Oh, yeah. Go ahead. He thanked him. Chester helped him set it up. The bag was hooked up to her wheelchair. They were in a private room because they were a large group. So they didn’t have to worry about other people being offended or grossed out by her feeding tube. It had happened before and it made her upset.

Some people just didn’t want to understand. It was frustrating. Thankfully, it only happened once. Usually, people were kind enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

When she was done eating, he closed her port. He then took her feeding tube to the bathroom to clean out. On his way out, he ran into his ex-girlfriend, Anna. They said hello to each other. She was there with a group of friends. He mentioned he was there with his wife and the band. Brad’s wife was also there. She didn’t know he was married. Congratulations. Thank you.

He brought her back to say hello to everyone. She was introduced to Bria. Can I shake her hand? After getting permission, she took her hand and shook it. They all waited to see what she would say. She looked at her with curiosity.

“Hi, I’m Bria. I’m Mike’s wife.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

After a short conversation, she left. What did she think? Mike chose the right girl. They laughed. It was very true. He did choose the right girl to marry. She was the one who got him to commit. They continued eating and engaging her in conversation. She was having so much fun, she didn’t even think about being tired. Not until they got into the car. That was when it hit her.

She closed her eyes for a moment. When they were back home, he asked her if she had fun. Yes, let’s do it again sometime. He laughed. Maybe they would do that. He kissed her cheek before bringing her upstairs to get her diaper and pajamas. She was tired but they needed to get the sand off because it would irritate her skin. The warm water would help her feel better. He undressed her before placing her into the bathtub wheelchair.

He used the shower head to rinse her off after checking the temperature of the water. Her monitor was turned on and it sat in the iPad holder. Did she want to take a bath or go to bed? She asked to take a bath. Yeah. He turned the shower off before filling the tub. Her tired face lit up with happiness. Once the tub was filled up, he let her soak.

This is the best day ever. He laughed. Good. He was happy to hear that. Even though she couldn’t run into the water or play in the sand, she felt included. A half-hour later, she was dried off with her diaper and pajamas on. He brought her to her room and set up the equipment. She was half asleep, so he had a good feeling she would be asleep shortly. He kissed her forehead and told her how much he loved her. I’ll see you in the morning.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia

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convotechengg · 1 year ago

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Working & Features of Bucket Wheel Sand Washing Plant

Bucket wheel sand washing plant is important for sand cleaning in industries like construction, mining and concrete production. The machine not only cleans the sand but also dries it, thus removing the extra water. Here, we explain the working Bucket wheel classifier plant.

#Bucket Wheel Classifier plant #bucket wheel classifier supplier in ahmedabad #bucket sand washing plant exporters in india #dewatering screen manufacturers

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limecaine · 1 year ago

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“Worms”

Part 1

I lay on a table in a dark room. The doctor stands over me, shining a slightly reassuring smile. And for this test I’m going to have to breathe radioactive gas while the moving metal tongue I lay upon is aching to swallow me whole into the machine. The tiled floor contrasts against the dark blue walls of the hospital room. He puts the mask over my face and walks into another room. Now I endure an hour with an intercom. No, I’m not diabetic. No, I’m not allergic to dyes. No, you don’t have to bring me a pillow, thankyouverymuch.

Hydrogen-3, iodine-125, oxygen-15, carbon-11. Abby-21. Prime of my life and I’m in the goddamn hospital. It’s been hospital visit after hospital visit for a few months now. Prime of my life and I’m worrying if I’m going to make it to thirty…

I wish I had asked for that pillow. I’ll look like an idiot if I ask for it now.

A humming sound and the table slides into the maw. It buzzes like a washing machine. Go ahead and PET me. The rumbling donut around my cranium makes a loud repetitive thumping sound. Weird lights shine. I have to stay still, keep my head still. Thump. This room smells strange. Thump. I feel a pressure in my skull. Thump. It starts to hurt. Thump. I can’t move. Thump. I can’t move. Thump. I can’t. Thump. It’s spinning. Thump. In circles around me. Thump. “Eyes forward, please.” Thump. The lights get brighter. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump, thump, faster, faster, spinning, the lights get brighter, brighter. Thump, thump, thump, brighter, brighter, louder, louder. I’m panicking now.

And then it was over. The torus spits me out. I stand up and walk over to the door, but before I can open it, the doctor speaks over the intercom.

“Abigail? The test is over.”

Except, the doctor isn’t here. There is no door, I think I just realized that. There is no room. In fact, I never walked to the door. I never got up. As far as I can tell, the test never finished. Where am I? That’s a riddle.

Room full of stars. Was that your answer? Because that’s where I am right now. The door falls away like sand. Like a screensaver. The whole room is colder. Everything around me is black with bright little dots. I try to walk forward but I don't have legs anymore. I don’t have arms or a mouth or eyes. Something’s loud but I can’t hear it due to the realization that I no longer have any ears. No, no, I still have them, I just can’t feel them. Something is wrong. It’s getting louder. The distinct sound of creaking metal.

Trees shade worms who crawl through the dirt, bushes rustle in the autumn wind, and rabbits scurry away at the sound of an incoming vehicle. A sputtering car goes down the cracked road. The man inside sticks a cigarette in his mouth, puffing a bit before holding his left hand out the window as the smoke leaves his lungs. The car he is driving is figuratively held together with glue and duct tape. It is literally held together with zip ties and duct tape. It will just be enough to get the man to Mutton Vehicle Services. At least, that’s what he hopes.

“Louis, Louis…” He mutters to himself. “You… you idiot… you… fuckin’ idiot…” He is trying hard to keep the car above 30 mph. He is failing.

It is the golden hour and twilight is waning over the midwest. Louis taps his fingers over the steering wheel to the tune on the radio. “Cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon…” A funny coincidence is apparent to no one, that being that the radio is the device in the car in highest working condition.

Which makes this a perfect time for the radio to stop working. Louis does the typical thing of hitting it a few times until giving up and mumbling some expletive. The orange twinkles of sunset are fading and Louis switches on his headlight. The cracked roads of rural Indiana are soon leading into the more well-maintained streets of Mutton. Of course, as his vehicle is very illegal to drive, the man is heading straight towards the nearest mechanic and trying to avoid all cops. He may have been better off cutting a hole in the floor and walking it like a Flintstones car. He may have been better off never coming to Mutton at all. But that’s another story. Though luckily, in this story, Louis’s car doesn’t have any holes yet.

Louis arrives at the vehicle services shop, earning a bewildered look from the mechanics inside. It’s as if they signed up for the Navy and were just told they’re sailing the Pacific tomorrow. He drives - well, it’s more like he forces - the car into the garage. He steps out of the car and is about to throw his cigarette on the ground but decides against it, discarding the butt into a trash can. The garage is large and smells like oil. The walls are painted light blue but years of smoke and grease has made them gray. Another car is lifted up on jacks and two legs attached to boots are sticking out from under it.

One of the mechanics walks up to Louis. She has soot covering most of her face. And arms. And legs. And jumpsuit. The soot doesn’t cover her nametag, “Fletcher.” She’s small, Puerto Rican, and intimidating.

“Seriously, I think you’re better off getting a new car,” she suggests, “This might take two or three weeks.”

“I need this car. I don’t care what’s blown or loose.”

She walks over to the car, taking pity in the sheer brokenness of it. Opening the hood, Fletcher discovers the smoky interior of the car equivalent to the brain of a rabies patient.

“Well, it’s going to cost you a pretty penny.”

And that pretty penny will go to the car equivalent to the Milwaukee Protocol, an utter gutting and replacement of most of the moving parts.

“Is there anywhere I can stay in the meantime?”

“Not really my problem,” she says under her breath, “I don’t know. The London Inn is usually open.”

“Okay. Got it. You need my name and number… anything upfront?” Fletcher looks up from the engine and makes an annoyed face.

“Just give me a few.”

Louis walks over to a bench outside and picks at the dirt under his fingernails. The crisp autumn air whispers hints of a wintery forewarning. He looks out at the road, the streetlights on, houses full of people. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth, but some unexplainable chill of the night runs up his spine. He decides not to smoke.

Fletcher walks back outside with a clipboard littered with illegible writing.

“Two thousand five hundred dollars upfront, around three thousand after we’re done.” Louis pulls out his wallet filled with credit cards which have other people’s names on them, handing a black and yellow one to the mechanic.

“We need your keys, by the way,” Fletcher notes, hand outstretched like a child feeding a deer. Louis stands up and hands them to the woman, walking back inside the garage. The mechanic throws the keys in a perfect arc, landing in the hand of a less sooty, less angry repairman with a name patch “Kaf.” The man decides to inspect the insides of the car, crawling back out before inserting the key into the trunk. Louis and Fletcher both watch him open the trunk of the car, holding it up, before he utters one phrase:

“What the hell?”

I hope you don't consider me an unreliable narrator. Out of all the characters I have told you about, one exists yet you do not willingly perceive it. Me. I won’t lie to you, my knowledge of cars, car repair, and suburban Indiana is limited. That’s a lie, though, I will lie to you. We lie to each other all the time. We write hundreds of thousands of lies that we compile together into something we call a story. Bonobos lie to each other, one may scream something that means “predator coming!” if they spot a juicy fruit that another may try to steal. But these lies have just one purpose: personal gain. Lies that humans tell can be white lies, things that are untrue but are told (in an attempt) to protect another person.

Stories are a very interesting version of the lie: lies that a reader knows are untrue, but suspends their disbelief in order to be invested. These stories make authors seem more powerful than they actually are. I’m just a human with a human body. You can explore the concrete playground of my brain, a linear walkthrough not too dissimilar from watching a film. Except the reel is from my head and the projector’s in yours. Now watch and look closely. Our two actors are about to meet.

Inside of the trunk is an unconscious woman. No lie. It is probably apparent that most criminals do not walk into a public business and show off their crime to everyone else. Though one detail of this predicament is that while Louis is a criminal, this is certainly something that he would not do.

“What the hell did you do?” Fletcher exclaims, “Why is there a fucking body in your trunk?” The assistant mechanic checks her pulse.

“She’s.. Pale.. but alive!”

“I don’t know how she got in there,” Louis tries to explain. Fletcher looks at him and almost believes him. She pulls her flip phone out of her pocket and starts to dial 911. Among the commotion, as customers and mechanics rush to view the almost dead woman, she begins to come to. Dazed, confused, missing, but certainly not kidnapped.

“Oh, oh my God are you okay?”

“Doctor..?” She weakly cries out.

“Do you need a doctor? Help’s on the way, honey.”

“No..” Abigail whispers, “Doctor Carmichael?”

At the same time, Louis is attempting to search for an excuse.

“She must have crawled in there. Look, she’s not even tied up. If I wanted to kidnap her, why wouldn’t I tie her up?” He says, looking guilty, “And-and-and why would I just drive her here?”

Fletcher considers it, but continues her call with the police. Louis runs over to the trunk and looks at the woman inside.

“I’ve never seen this person in my life,” he says, pointing to the previously unconscious lady, “and my name’s Louis, not Carmichael.”

“Who… who are you? Where am I?” Abigail wonders aloud, rubbing her eyes, “Why am I in a trunk?”

“You’re in Mutton,” Kaf solely answers, “Um, Indiana.”

“What the fuck? Indiana?” She replies, “I-I’m supposed to be in Delaware.” She climbs out of the car, looking around.

“There’s no way you traveled over 500 miles in a car trunk without knowing,” Kaf says.

“I’ve never even been to Delaware,” Louis adds, still defending himself, “Please, lady, I don’t know how you got into my car.” After a few minutes of pointless bickering, a person of authority has finally shown up to Mutton Vehicle Services, and Sheriff Placeholder Name steps inside.

Placeholder Name is tall, gruff man, with a balding head and goatee. He has an unplaceable accent, but most listeners can determine that it’s certainly not American. Suburban Indiana is a relatively peaceful place and the sheriff hardly ever keeps his firearm on him.

“What’s going on here?” The sheriff asks, not knowing that each person would respond at once.

Fletcher: “This guy kidnapped someone.”

Louis: “This lady climbed into my trunk!”

Abigail: “I’m supposed to be across the country.”

Kaf: “I don’t really know.”

It should be noted here that while Sheriff Placeholder Name heard none of that, he is aware of a possible crime that occurred relating to an extremely dilapidated car. Walking over to it, each person tries to clarify the situation.

“They’re saying I kidnapped this woman when she doesn’t even know who I am.”

“She was in your trunk.”

“That’s a coincidence!”

Placeholder Name sighs, “Calm down.” He turns to face Abigail, “Did this man kidnap you?”

She turns her head, “I don't think so, no.” She says definitively, “But I’m miles away from home, somehow.”

Placeholder Name looks at Louis, then at Fletcher. “The lady ain’t tied up or anything. This isn’t like the kidnappings I’ve seen.” Which happen to be two, in the nineties.

Fletcher puts her hands on her hips and looks down in thought. Kaf brings a bottle of water to the still dazed Abigail.

“We could test you for drugs back at the station, but that’s up to you.”

Abigail shakes her head, taking a small sip of the water.

“That’s really all I can do, legally. If you need me, please call the non-emergency line.” Sheriff Placeholder Name leaves. Fletcher holds the credit card out toward Louis, who goes to grab it, when she swipes it away.

“Whose card is this? Your name is Louie, is it not?”

“I need that,” he says, ignoring the question, “Give it back. And it’s Louis.”

“So it’s not ‘Maximilien Cirza’? Why don’t you check again.” Fletcher hands the card back to him. “When we bill you, it better not get charged back.”

“It won’t.”

He almost winks at Fletcher, but decides that is lame. Walking over to the trunk, he pulls it upward.

Kaf jokes, “We better not find the Lindbergh baby in there.”

Instead of Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr., Louis pulls out an aluminum suitcase. It is filled with toiletries, clothes, cigarettes, and medicine. Some of it is even prescribed to Louis.

Abigail asks, “Are you sure I can stay with you?”

“It’s a motel, I think they take anyone,” Louis replies, “Is it alright if we share a room? There’ll be two beds.”

“Thanks. And I’m good with that.”

Louis uses a different credit card with a different name on it, being careful not to spend too much on one account. The hotel clerk was not half as perceptive as Fletcher was, returning the monetary plastic with no hint of suspicion.

Upon entering the hotel room, the pair is immediately hit by the 1970s. Not only does the room look like the set of a period piece, it also smells like a smoking competition took place inside. Of course, Louis did not mind this, but Abigail certainly did. Her nose was not as used to cigarette smoke and as she sat down on the room’s chair she fought back a coughing fit. The room held two white-sheeted queen sized beds, a wooden ceiling fan, two dingy nightstands, two chairs, and a dresser. Everything other than those had some kind of stain on it. The carpet looked like it was woven in the medieval age and the wallpaper had a familiar-looking floral pattern to it. There was something strange about the room, something off-putting to both inhabitants.

The two have an air of awkwardness between them. Neither are hungry enough to eat and both decide to sleep and make plans tomorrow. They drift off to bed.

Dreams are often storytelling symbols used to present a window into the inner psyche of a character. Of course, in real life, dreams are not this straightforward. Usually a dream is composed of surreal experiences that relate to a person’s day, mixed up memories and fantasies. While Abigail did not have a dream she would remember, or one that is important to this story, Louis did have a trip to the dreary landscape of his mind.

He is sitting in an empty church wearing a tuxedo. His father sits in the pew across from him. They are both staring towards the front when some invisible force lifts Louis up and carries him out of the church. He tries to thrash and fight against the force but it is too strong. Screaming escapes his lungs as a whisper. Louis’s father remains sitting, staring forward. As he nears the church doors, he fights harder and tries to escape. Invisibly and violently pulled out of the church, Louis wakes up.

In a cold sweat. With Abigail standing over him.

“What the hell? Were you watching me sleep?”

“I’m sorry! You started screaming and I was worried and I didn’t know what to do,” she exclaims. Louis sighs, thinking over his nightmare. He sits on the bed and the mattress makes an awful creaking sound.

“It’s okay.”

Standing outside the historical inn, Louis is sitting on the curb and watching the cars go by. Little traffic comes by Mutton, but the steady trickle of nightly cars is enough for the fledgling businesses. A stray cat scurries across the road. It is two in the morning and Louis is trying to forget his dream. The cat sits and stares at the man. Though it quickly loses interest and begins licking its paw before rubbing its face. Upon seeing the brunette, it sprints off into the night. Abigail sits down next to Louis.

“I’m sorry I teleported into your trunk.”

Louis chuckles. The absurdity of the events of the day almost make it seem like it all was a dream. While he still sees Abigail as a stranger, she has become a comfortable stranger.

He turns to her and smiles, “It’ll make a great memoir.”

The wilderness of the midnight hours makes a home for no one but nocturnal creatures, cars, and peaceful half-silence. Yet our two acquaintances have carved a niche for themselves, embracing and almost becoming the creatures of the night. Abigail and Louis sit for a while, they have earned this solace. They have painted color onto the dreadful monochrome landscape of moonlit streets. The pair return to the inn and fall asleep.

As the first drops of golden sunlight peer through the frosted windows, Louis is gently awakened. Abigail, on the other hand, is heavily asleep. When she is brought to the living world by her circadian rhythm’s smelling salts, Louis has brought coffee and two doughnuts. He has already munched through the jelly-filled one and left the regular chocolate-frosted pastry for his acquaintance. The hotel’s coffee is cheap, but tiredness numbs the taste buds in a similar way that overheating makes one wish for winter. Not knowing her well, Louis brought options. He drinks his coffee black with a small bit of sugar, but has brought little milk and creamer cups for Abigail’s. She carefully opens and pours three vanilla creamer cups into her coffee turning the dark brown into a tan sepia. They talk over breakfast.

“This is a real dead-end town,” Louis starts, “not even a bus stop. We’re probably better off waiting for my car to be repaired.”

“I have work today,” she says quietly, “I wish I could call my boss, but my phone’s…”

Louis pats his pants and his jacket. Abigail shakes her head.

“It’s fine, I don't remember the number anyway.” She says, knowing what he’s searching for, “Um, and thanks. For the coffee.” Louis locates his phone on the dresser.

Louis asks, “So, what should we do today?”

“I’m not sure. What do we even know?”

“I think we should…” she ponders for a moment. “Let’s go over what we do know now.”

Abigail looks around the room and brings over the pad of blank hotel paper.

Louis gets a pen for himself. “Let’s work out the axioms first and draw some questions from there.”

“Ha. Didn’t know you were so Hilbertian.”

Louis recounts his philosophy classes. “He wasn’t my favorite.”

Louis writes ‘something otherworldly,’ but crosses out ‘otherworldly’ and writes ‘paranormal.’ Abigail doesn’t comment on that.

However, she does start, “Well, we can assume there’s something important about us.”

They both find the axioms of themselves. They think, therefore, they are.

Abigail writes: ‘Why us?’

“And something important about this place,” Louis adds.

‘Why here?’

“And why in the middle of my hospital visit?”

‘Why now?’

“And on this night, why do we dip twice instead of once?”

Abigail doesn’t understand this, but assumes it was a joke. “Be serious.”

‘PET scan’

“What is a PET scan?” Louis asks.

“They put some radioactive fluid in you to detect cancers.”

He is surprised. “You have cancer?”

“Yeah, but the test is just to find where exactly it is,” Abigail says matter-of-factly, “and if it’s spread.”

Louis peers into the eyes of mortality. “God, well, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The pair sit in silence for a few ineffable moments.

Why here? Why anywhere? If a story happens and no one is around to write it, did it really happen? If there’s words in my head but my hands were mangled in a freak wood chipper accident, how can I write a novel? If a man falls into a pillar of drying concrete and no one around cares, who is to say he ever died at all?

Some may answer these rhetoricals with obvious, destructive answers. Though you, reader, I think you’re smarter than that. You can see the forest for the trees. Or rather, the bridge for the beams.

A woman in a leather jacket, suit pants, and rectangular glasses walks confidently into Mutton Vehicle Services. Her intimidating demeanor rivals that of even Fletcher’s. The woman’s eyes pierce the gaze of anyone unfortunate enough to be in her way.

“Did you see someone here yesterday or today named Louis Daskeo?”

Fletcher is unimpressed. “What are you, a cop?

A pause. An unspoken challenge is going on between the two women.

Dr. Lekarz is a little bit annoyed. “No, but I work for the World Health Organization.”

“Congratulations,” Fletcher snidely remarks, “but yes, we did see a Louie yesterday. His car’s right over here. Did he have pig flu or something?”

Lekarz looks at what can be loosely described as a vehicle. The mechanics have been taking shifts. “No, no, it’s something… else. Do you know where he is?”

“At the London Inn, probably. He’s only in town to get his car fixed. I have work to do, so if this isn’t any legal business, I’m going to go.”

So the doctor leaves, powerless in intimidation but empowered by information. She gets in her black unmarked car and rummages through her glove compartment for the local map of Mutton. Inside of it, besides the map, were disease testing kits, water purifying tablets, a 9x19 millimeter SIG Sauer P226 pistol, and a few tissues.

The unlikely duo walk up the concrete steps and push open the white door. Louis and Abigail have ended up at the scholar’s warehouse, the local town library. Black wooden tables and blue steel chairs, brass reading lamps and a dropped ceiling. It smells like dust and old carpet, though it is a popular meeting ground for youth. It being a Thursday afternoon, however, confined them to their schools. From encyclopedias on microbiology to non-Euclidean experimental horror satire, the library had its fair share of the world’s knowledge. Now it was time for answers.

The pair’s search for the paranormal has pivoted to history books and legendary accounts. The walk from the Inn to the library was not far and the town’s commercial areas are close together. They pass fiction, biography, and dictionaries to the large history shelves. Abigail pulls one that seems intriguing. Though ultimately fruitless, the book was an interesting dive into the famous peoples of Indiana. She returns the volume and pulls another. This one is about Indiana’s role in the civil war. Further from the strange, Abigail again puts this book away and continues to peruse the - at this point, unhelpful - shelves. Louis finds an easy way out, though. Public servants.

Louis asked and the librarian delivered: History of Towns in Indiana; A Collection of Maps, Records and Legends. It seemed each town and city populous enough to have paved roads had at least one page dedicated to it. While Abigail continued searching the nonfiction bookshelves, Louis sprinted through the collection of about five hundred towns, within ninety-two counties. From Akron, Avilla, Ambis and Angola, to Fort Wayne, Fairmount, Fowler, and Fort Branch, flipping the pages, Kendalville, Knox, Knightstown, Kokomo, and finally down to Madison, Marion, Middlebury, Mitchell, Monticello, Muncie, Mutton.

“Hey, look.”

The area was populated by the Indigenous Lenape until the 1818 Treaty of St. Mary’s, which effectively took the land. Settlers founded Mutton, naming it after Justice Henry Bedford Mutton. While Louis found this history interesting, Abigail skimmed it and went straight to the section entitled ‘Legends and Folk Lore.’

As they are going through the fairly lengthy paragraphs, Louis notices something. “Most of them seem to circle back to the St. Benedict’s Bridge.”

“Yeah, look here. There’s a picture.”

The photograph she is pointing to is a black-and-white image of a small bridge over a ravine. The distance is not large, covering only a small flowing creek. No one is in the frame. The caption on the picture states: ‘1921. Photographer unknown.’

“According to this, a mother holding her newborn tripped and fell over the side.”

“That doesn’t seem like it has anything to do with our situation,” Abigail says dryly.

“Here, this one’s even earlier. Some drunk construction worker on the bridge fell into a drying concrete pillar… and no one helped him out.” Louis read, “Apparently if you go there at night you can hear him scratching on the sides and screaming. Do you think that really happened? I mean obviously not the last part, but…”

Abigail is disappointed. “Weird, but really helpful.”

“It’s really our only lead.” Louis retorts, “And it’s not a far walk.”

The wind howls eerily near St. Benedict’s bridge. The latterly sunny day has transformed into a dreary overcast afternoon. Hell, it might even rain. Louis and Abigail trod through the dirt path towards the monument. Dried up grass spots the earth in uneven patterns. Once they stood before the bridge, the first thing they noticed was that the creek that ran under it was completely dried up. The second thing they noticed was a plaque with precious, vital information.

‘St. Benedict’s bridge. Construction started in 1918. Finished in 1921’

Louis says, “Three years to build a tiny thing like this?”

There’s three constants in life. Death, taxes, and construction delays. While I am not an expert in construction, let alone civil construction, I am aware that in every single facet of a project, something can go wrong. Tiling a floor, you might apply too much or too little mortar. Building a door, you may install the hinges backwards or block the door mechanism. Even when hanging a beautiful painting you might hit your thumb with a hammer, like one may do to their adversary in Tom and Jerry. Though one or a team may find themselves at the bitter end of misfortune, the utter disdain Lady Luck had on the St. Benedict’s workers would make Edward A. Murphy Jr. shudder. Even though the bridge construction team were not building face-meltingly fast rocket sleds, numerous errors occurred during that three-year period of utter construtere torment.

First, the amount of steel and concrete was wrongly ordered. Somewhere along the telegraph line, twice the amount of steel and half the amount of concrete needed arrived. Once that problem was fixed, the length of the ditch was mismeasured, leading to cutting issues. The concrete hardened too slow due to unexpected weather conditions. There was flooding (surprising in the predominantly dry and hot county) as well as the Spanish Flu. The workers were underpaid and frequently got destructively drunk at the local tavern.

According to local legend, the clergy of the village came to the bridge to pray to St. Benedict for protection. Ultimately, the incidence did not go down.

The dreary cloudy day did not bring fog to the Earth below, yet as Louis was reading the plaque he did feel a solitary raindrop on his head. And then one on the back of his hand, turning it upwards, then falls another on his palm.

“It’s drizzling.”

Under the bridge is a rocky path with spiderwebs and moth cocoons littered throughout. The drizzle turns to a steady pitter-patter of raindrops that makes mud from dirt, flooding little anthills and cracks in the parched ground.

“Well.. this is certainly a bridge.”

“It’s kinda pathetic,” Abigail says as she brushes her hand on the mossy top. A bug crawls along her hand and she shakes it off. Louis is too busy studying the carvings in the underside concrete to notice. Carvings of love, hate, protection, and the occult. He looks closer, tracing over a small pentagram with his finger. After a few minutes, some kind of vibration is felt, and he goes closer to the arch’s wall, pressing his ear against the stone.

“What the hell?” Louis exclaims. “Come here, listen.”

Abigail walks over the foliage and follows suit.

“Is that… scraping? Like stone on stone…” She wonders aloud. Similar to nails on a chalkboard, but less grating. Like nails on concrete. And then they hear something else, not from inside the bridge. A crack of a stick in the rain. Both of them jump, not anticipating the noise. Someone is near. It’s still raining. She steps out of the shadows. A damp woman in a black pantsuit, WHO tag, and dress shoes.

“Louis Daskeo, Abigail Pr-”

“What the hell,” Louis says aloud, “Who are you?”

Her authority undermined by an interjection, the woman shifts her stature and furrows her eyebrows. Standing closer now, it is noticeable: a long scar stretching from the top right of her forehead, over her eyelid, slicing a part of her lip, all the way down to the side of her chin. It is not quite off-colored but at the same time it does not look all the way healed. It is the most notable thing on her face, followed by her piercing gray eyes peppered with flecks of golden brown.

“Dr. Lekarz.” She walks towards the pair. “It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” she says under her breath. They are wary of her presence. Another annoyance in a long list of unanswered questions.

“Have you been following us?” Abigail asked.

“I’m with the WHO. You two have been exposed to a specific deadly strain of swine flu,” Lekarz lied, “And you need to come with me.”

Louis and Abigail looked at each other with skeptical expressions. Her badge seemed official, but everything else about her had an unprofessional air. Not including the fact that she clearly forgot an umbrella. She is a desk jockey with a gun and responsibilities, yet is inexperienced with one and frequently avoids the other.

“I don’t feel sick,” Louis rebuts, “And I had the flu last year, shouldn’t I be, like, immune?”

Lekarz notes his ignorance of what ‘strain’ means in the context of viral infections. Abigail does as well, but does not say anything.

“No,” the doctor sighs, not wanting to put the effort into explaining the basics of viruses, “You’re both in a lot of danger. Hell, this town’s under quarantine by the order of the CDC.” This statement was actually almost true.

Louis is still skeptical. “And what if we don’t want to?”

Abigail doesn’t like this question. “Louis, come on, we might be sick.” The worry in her eyes makes him reconsider. He does a quick flair of his eyes and puts his hands to his side.

“Lead the way, doc.”

Silence is what marked the walk to Lekarz’s car. Silence of voice and the pelting of raindrops on the three wayward humans. They all sprint-walked through the increasingly muddy field that pathed the way to the car. Louis put his jacket over his head, Abigail put her hood up, and Lekarz walked as if the rain was imaginary. The soaking-wet trio finally made it to the gray personal vehicle of Dr. Lekarz, with the two accused sick in the back and the doctor in the driver’s seat.

Silence is what marked the drive to wherever they were going, Louis and Abigail too worried about their status as formerly healthy people. The woman was the most worried, as she wondered if the swine flu would reduce the odds of fighting off her cancer. Lekarz, however, was glad that everything went smoothly. Glad that she didn’t have to use the gun. Intimidation was not foreign to her, yet she enjoyed being able to get her way without external help. She liked to solve problems like that, that’s something she always liked about Lekarz.

The doctor closed her eyes and sighed at the thought of her. Regaining her focus on anything would be hard now that she was on her mind. Louis and Abigail watched the rain fall out of the window as they slowly dried. Louis took out the paper notes they wrote before, sketching down such things as ‘swine flu,’ ‘WHO,’ and ‘Dr. Lekarz.’ This short sketching of ideas had Abigail’s curiosity drive her from her window stare, looking over at the man isolatedly writing. It’s almost like they were arrested, sitting in a cop car waiting to be driven to the precinct. Louis stares at the page, looking over the words ‘PET scan’ and tapping the pen to his chin. He worriedly looks out the rainy window one more time before the paved roads turn into a gravel parking lot. A bumpy stop later, “We’re here.”

The Indiana Institute of Magnetics Research was an actual institution, and actually did do magnetics research. Some of the most vital studies done relating to MRI technology were performed there, yet it was seemingly not enough to keep it from going under funding-wise. A little outside Mutton, the IIMR now stood as a puppet for the WHO’s own magnetic experiments within. Though it originally was a shell site, it grew, and grew, and grew.

Now the elevator ride took forty-five seconds and gave ample time for Abigail, Louis, and Lekarz to stand awkwardly apart. It was an ordinary elevator, gray carpeted flooring, fluorescent light above, and an elevator panel going L to B15. Lekarz is using this time to think over her lie, and now unsustainable it now was. She had to come clean, sooner or later.

She turns around. “Neither of you have the swine flu. I lied.” The faces of Louis and Abigail stay neutral. Abigail, who was not really listening, and Louis, who believes he heard incorrectly.

“You are healthy,” she confesses, “Well, actually, you’re a smoker and you have cancer. But other than that, you’re fine.”

Before either of them can muster up a “How did you know that?” the elevator dings. In front of them is a semicircular gray atrium, apparently the natural habitat of clipboards, desk workers, whitecoat scientists, corporate americana, and coffee. The drink, not the plant.

The atrium leads off to three long hallways with blue-gray doors and boringly patterned carpet. Lekarz does a wave motion, but Abigail stands anchored outside the elevator.

Where are we? Why are we here? Why did you lie? These questions circled around Abigail’s head, but seeing Louis follow the doctor makes her not want to be left behind. She reluctantly follows down one of the hallways.

She asks anyway, “Can you please explain what is going on?”

Lekarz thinks for a second, “We need you two. If I explain everything now, you won’t believe me. I had to lie to get you here. I’m sorry.”

Sensing that they are not satisfied, she adds, “Everything will make sense in a moment.”

Walking farther down, they pass a long window giving them a view into a giant room, like an airport hangar. Inside of it is a giant mass of yellowish pink flesh, held up by metal trusses and wires. Cables shoot out of it at many points and what look like teslas attached to a grid on the mass. Some people, dwarfed by the thing, stand at the bottom. Louis and Abigail stop to look, bewildered. They can only see a fraction of the entire complex.

“What the… what the fuck is that?” Abigail asks.

A poignant question. Not one easily answerable. And that isn’t due to the fact that it’s beyond comprehension, but because any part of the thing that our characters are seeing is difficult to swallow without the entire context. To be completely honest, I don’t really know where to start with this one. Let me tell you a story.

There was a man, an unimportant man. He worked in a boring organization and did unimportant things. And one day they found a tumor in his head, and he became the most important man in the world.

#original writing

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shotblastpro · 1 year ago

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Shot Blasting Machine

Shot blasting machine is an effective method to remove the surface contaminant, clean and roughen a smooth surface before applying a primer or coating. Shot blasting equipment is used in almost every industry that uses metal, including aerospace, automotive, construction, foundry, shipbuilding, rail, and many others. Shot blasting machine is a non-standard machine, all the detailed parameters are tailored according to customer object items detailed conditions and customer requirements. Whether wheel blasting or air blasting, our products can meet your demands. As an expert automatic shot blasting machine manufacturer from China with 45 years' experience, QingGong Machinery has sold more than 4000 sets of shot blasting equipment all over the world. Contact our engineer for competitive shot blasting machine price.

Types of Shot Blasting Machine for Sale

Shot blasting machine is an effective method to remove the surface contaminant, clean and roughen a smooth surface before applying a primer or coating.

History of Shot Blasting Machine

Industry: Cleaning, Mechanical, Metal, Metallurgy, Metal casting.

Application: Automotive industry, Construction industry, Windpower industry, Railway industry, Foundry- forging industry, Shipyard, Mould industry, Pipeline cleaning industry, Electric industry, Stone industry.

Inventor: Benjamin Chew Tilghman

Invented: October 18th, 1870

Benjamin Tilghman was a general in the army and saw the effect of wind-blown sand on windows in the desert. The might be the basis of his shot blasting machine invention.

On October 18.1870, Tilghman filed a patent, titled “Improvement in cutting and engraving stone, metal, glass, etc”, in the US(US paten 108,408), detailing many unique applications of the technology, such as sharpening files, carving bottles, cleaning boilers or turning. The wood grain comes out. Later that year, a patent was issued in the UK.

Shot blasting is a technique in which a selected class of abrasive particles is used to do surface preparation, that is, remove material from a surface at a high speed (65-110m/s) corrosion rate. It is the operation of forcing the abrasive stream to the surface under high pressure to smooth the rough surface, roughen the smooth surface, and shape or remove surface contaminants. A pressurized fluid (usually compressed air), or a centrifugal wheel is used to propel the blast material (commonly referred to as the medium).

How Shot Blasting Machine Works?

During the working process of the shot blasting machine, the electrically controlled transport system conveys the object items into the shot blasting chamber, and its surfaces are hit and rubbed by powerful and dense steel shots from different coordinate directions. The oxide scale, rust layer, and dirt on the surface quickly fall off.

Used blasting media and contaminants (pill dust mixture) falling into the screw conveyor, then reclaim them into the bucket elevator and then into the air wash cleaner system, the cleaned abrasive get into the storage hopper to recycle, the residual will get out of the recycling system from the air wash cleaner system. The dust is collected to the dust collector system by the exhaust pipe, the purified air is discharged into the atmosphere, and the particulate dust is captured and collected in the dust collector, and then discharged into the atmosphere is clean and pollution-free air.

Shot Blasting Machine Parts

Blasting Chamber

Blasting cabinet body welded by steel plates and profile steel, have enough strength and rigidity.

Blasting chamber is 360° protected by high resistance manganese steel alloy liners, which is enough to deal with the shot blasting from 35HRC to more than 60HRC.

High impact toughness can make full use of the reflection kinetic energy of the shot to continue to blast cleaning the surface of the workpiece, so greatly enhance the cleaning efficiency and quality.

To avoid shot leakage, 3-6 layers of rubber sheets are fitted in the inlet and outlet, meanwhile, a high cleanness result is assured.

Blasting Chamber

Blast Wheel

Blast wheel including blast whee housing, motor, blade, control cage, distributor, and guard plate.

Guard plates in the blast wheel are designed according to abrasive shot and blades rotating track simulation. After accelerating along the round track, abrasive can reach the highest speed and cause the least self-wear.

The direct-driven motor has a low noise level, fewer spare parts, higher energy efficiency, large abrasive flow rate, and good cleaning effect, etc.

Max thickness of guard plates is up to 70 mm, the service time is greatly increased. Material for core components is high chromium wear resistance alloy, max hardness is up to HRC55-60.

Blast Wheel

Automatic Abrasive Reclaim System

Automatic abrasive reclaim system including screw conveyor, bucket elevator, separator, abrasive cleaning up system.

Screw Conveyor

Cylindrical machining process after the whole weldment to ensure high coaxiality of the whole screw, for longer surface time.

3-layer labyrinth design sealing to protect bearings from the damage of abrasive shot.

Bucket Elevator

Cage-shape belt driving wheel offers higher friction to the belt to avoid slip, decreasing the elevating belt pre tightening force

Maintenance door at bottom of the housing to maintain the bottom drive device.

Wear-resistant elevator buckets bolted onto elevator belt, tension device prevents the belt to skid.

SQP sensor can alarm and automatically power off when faults happened in bucket elevator.

Separator

A full-screen curtain air selection separator makes the abrasive more evenly dispersed, and takes the dust and other residues that may be contaminating the abrasive material to the exhaust system.

Optionally, the abrasive materials purifier can be supplied with a revolving screen.

A checking window allows workers to maintain the machine expediently.

Abrasive Cleaning Up System

An abrasive cleaning up system is used for the roller conveyor shot blasting machine and preservation line.

The abrasive cleaning up system is equipped with a wear-resistant nylon roller brush, screw conveyor, high-pressure blower, and lifting mechanism.

After shot blasting, the lifting mechanism lowers the roller brush to the most suitable position (make the roller brush contact with the workpiece), rolling and rotating, sweeping the left abrasive on the workpiece surface into the screw conveyor. Meanwhile, the high-pressure blower continues to clean scattered pellets and dust on the surface, make the surface clear.

Nylon roll brush with high elasticity and phi 3.5mm imported composite nylon material, moderate hardness, great elasticity, and good wear resistance.

Automatic Abrasive Reclaim System

Dust Collector

3-level dust collector: settling chamber, cyclone dust collector, and cartridge filters. Cleaning efficiency is up to 99.5%.

The filters use cartridge type filters, a vertical fixed unique structure is greatly convenient for maintenance and collecting dust.

The filter adopts the Venturi principle venturi tube pulse blowback dust collecting system for clearing the dust on the filter.

How to Choose the Abrasive of Shot Blasting Machine?

Metal abrasives include steel shot, steel grit, iron shot, iron sand, stainless steel shot, stainless steel sand, steel wire cut shot, and stainless steel wire cut shot, etc.

Each type of shot blasting machine equipment requires different types of abrasives. If the final type of abrasive needs to be determined, it also depends on what kind of workpiece the shot blasting machine is blasting and the desired shot blasting effect. The size of the workpiece is different, and the abrasive used is also different, so the specific type of abrasive used depends on the situation.

The larger the abrasive diameter, the higher the surface roughness of the workpiece, but the shot blasting efficiency is also high; the abrasive diameter should be selected according to the surface roughness of the part. The shot blasting efficiency of other irregularly shaped steel shots or cut wire shots is higher than that of spherical shots, but the surface roughness is also higher.

Choose the abrasive with a moderate hardness to achieve a good application effect. Suitable abrasive hardness and excellent resilience, so that the abrasive can be projected to every part of the shot blasting machine chamber, and then reduce the blasting time.

#shot #blasting #equipment #for #sale

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obexoticsautocare · 2 years ago

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How To Choose Among Car Pressure Wash, Polishing, & Steam Cleaning?

Car pressure washing, polishing, and steam cleaning are important for car maintenance due to their own individual benefit. All these practices help to keep your car clean and in good condition. These three services are distinct and serve different purposes. So let's get started.

Car Pressure Wash

As the name suggests the process utilizes high-pressure water to clean the exterior of a vehicle. It is an effortless way to remove dirt, grime, and other debris that can accumulate on your car's body over time. You should definitely consider a car pressure wash when your car is noticeably dirty or has been exposed to harsh elements like mud, salt, or sand. It is a great way to prepare your car for a new coat of wax or polish.

Car Polishing

The process entails removing imperfections on the surface of a car's paint by using a polishing compound. Polishing can be done either manually or with a machine. It helps you to restore the shine and color of your car's paint, making it look like new again. You should consider polishing your car when the paint looks dull, faded, or has minor scratches and swirl marks. We always recommend polishing your car before applying a wax coating.

Steam Cleaning

Having known from the name that this process uses hot, pressurized water vapor to clean the interior of a car. It is a highly effective ,eco- friendly and toxin free way to remove stains, odors, and bacteria from your car's upholstery and carpeting. It also helps to sanitize your car's surfaces, making it a great option for families with children or pets. You definitely should consider steam cleaning your car when you notice stains or unpleasant odors in your car's interior.

car pressure wash, polishing, and steam cleaning are important car maintenance practices that can help to keep your car looking and running great. You should consider these services based on the condition of your car's exterior and interior, and on your individual needs and preferences. Regular cleaning and maintenance can help to extend the life of your car, improve its resale value, and enhance your overall driving experience.

Professional car services are not limited to this; instead , it also includes various car cleaning methods like Clay Bar Treatment, Interior Detailing, Glass Cleaning, Engine Bay Cleaning, Tire and Wheel Cleaning and waxing. You avail these methods according to your car care needs and upkeep your car keeping it in good condition.

For any further queries contact Ob Exotics without any hesitance.

For more detailed information regarding this topic, you can check out our blog When To Opt for Car Pressure Wash, Polishing, & Steam Cleaning?

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aquamiser · 2 years ago

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Clean Way to Remove Impurities - Abrasive Water Blasting

Abrasive water blasting is a technique that has been in play since 1870. This technique uses water and soap to enable degreasing with a synchronous blasting to eliminate dust and hazardous material or waste(asbestos or other impurities). It doesn’t pose any danger to surfaces and structures, resulting in effective decontamination. This is done by Abrasive Water Blasting Equipment which varies in size and pressure.

Abrasive water blasting forcibly propels abrasive material against a surface under high pressure to achieve the following:

● Smoothing of a rough surface

● Roughening of a smooth surface

● Shaping of a surface

● Removal of surface contaminants

The Aqua Miser’s abrasive water blasting process can be done using all traditional blasting formats such as walk-in booths, hand cabinets, automated production machinery, and total loss portable blasting units. The speed of the process depends upon the requirement. The surface which has been cleaned using the process is not damaged as water acts as a buffer. Thus, there are two advantages of abrasive water blasting, it decreases media breakdown rate, and second, it prevents foreign material from sticking to the surface. The level of cleanliness of water blasting is way better than dry blasting because of which it is preferred before coating or bonding operations too.

Types of Wet Blasting Techniques

There are several wet blasting techniques presently available for the choice. Few of them are

● Wet Abrasive Blasting

● High-pressure water blasting

● High-pressure water and abrasive blasting

● Air and water abrasive blasting

The choice of blasting method depends upon the requirement and according to the application.

Abrasive Water Blasting Equipment Details

The wet blast devices are mostly of cabinet-mounted type that can be easily modified. You can take-off conveyors, auxiliary strippers, and wash-rinse dry stations. The blasted device is usually composed of the following parts:

● Vertical wheel

● Horizontal plane turntable

● Shuttle with rail/car extensions

● Chain/belt conveyors

● Self-contained turning mechanisms for shafts and tubular parts

● Combination of tumbling-cabinet machines.

How Does Abrasive Blasting Work?

Abrasive water blasting equipment involves the propulsion of a slurry towards a surface with the help of a high-velocity air propulsion system. The slurry is finely abrasive mixed in chemically treated water. involves high-velocity compressed air propulsion of a slurry towards a surface. The compressed air is sent into a vessel at a pressure equal to that fed to a blast hose. The pressure is equalized to enable the abrasive mixture to feed into an airline. A full flow valve is located between a hopper and mixing chamber which is used to control the flow of abrasives.

Applications of Wet Abrasive Blasting

The applications of wet abrasive blasting are as follows:

● Burr removal from substrates

● Preparation of surface for hard chrome coatings, bonding composites, bonding coatings, bonding composites, and tine and other tool coatings.

● Aviation engine rebuilding

● Etch glass for decorative or functional purposes

● Peen surfaces for a bright, and clean appearance

● Automotive overhaul and engine rebuilding

● Clean plastic injection molds

● Hole cleaning for printed circuit boards

Benefits of Wet Abrasive Blasting

The list of benefits of abrasive blasting is long but key benefits of wet abrasive blasting are listed below:

● Extremely fine media can be used

● Media impregnation into the substrate is not possible

● Deeply cleans irregular surfaces

● Eliminates the need for hand-sanding

● Eliminates the need to use toxic chemicals

● Reduces dust

● Closed cabinet recycles media/slurry

● No heat warping with thin parts

● Final finish is appealing with a satin feel

● Provides an excellent surface for plating

● Provides an excellent surface for bonding

● Holds tight tolerances

#abrasivewaterblasting abrasivewaterblastingequipment aquamiser highpressurewaterblasting

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thetaoofzoe · 4 years ago

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FIC: Syverson the Protector Pt III

* Syverson The Protector - Part I (pairing Syverson x YOU)

* Syverson the Protector - Part II (pairing Syverson x YOU)

Summary: You are an embedded journalist and on a mission, everything goes wrong. He promised to protect you but can you save him?

Rating for this part: Budding romance, Fluff, wound related gore/blood (mild), war related violence. Must be read in order, no part can stand alone.

Word count: 3121

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

It was sauna-hot in that cramped filthy cab. Sweat beaded on your cheeks and upper lip and leaked down into the corners of your mouth. You lashed your tongue around your lips and immediately regretted it as the salty liquid tasted foul, like bile and petrol, and swallowing it wasn’t an option you were willing to take. You worked your water-starved tongue around inside your cheeks, only managing to gather a pitiful amount of saliva, which you spat out through the open window. Disgusted, you swiped your mouth, then your face with your sleeve, but no amount of wiping with equally dirty hands or clothes helped.

Suddenly the truck’s front tire crunched into a rocky pit and in an unfocused panic, you whipped the wheel, sending the truck skidding to one side. With teeth clenched, both feet punching down on the brakes and hands death gripping the hot leather, you struggled with the careening truck. Minutes ticked by as you wrestled it under control. Stopping the truck, you sat shaken and gulping for air, as kicked-up sand and dust plumed in through the window.

The potholes. The road was littered with them and no amount of defensive driving and steering wheel calisthenics could stop the pick-up truck from striking a deep hole. However, you knew that if you kept on driving as recklessly as you were, it was going to end badly and you couldn’t afford to wreck the truck.

‘Shit… focus. Keep it together,’ you muttered, panting and wiping your face again.

You laid swollen, blood crusted hands on the wheel, and slid an appraising glance at the man slumped bonelessly against the passenger door. He was a mess, eyes showing their whites, skin grey beneath the grime, and stewed cherry red blood had soaked through the scarf you’d used to help staunch the flow of the pulsing cavernous wound in his gut.

Shouldn’t have moved him, you thought morosely.

Shouldn’t have moved him!

Should have left him where he was!

If you had left him, he might not be unconscious in a truck, piloted by an unstable driver, where he could no longer apply pressure to his own inevitably fatal wound. He was going to bleed out in the cab of that little pickup because he was beyond your ineffectual ability to help him.

You reached out and pushed on the blood sodden scarf, desperate to keep the pressure on his wound, but you couldn’t do that and drive at the same time. Putting the truck in park, you climbed across the bench seat to get closer to where he lay sprawled limply against the door.

His breath was fast and shallow and high in his chest. His eyes flickered slightly, opened, then closed again and you stared down at him, your hope for him waking up, rapidly dissolving. An iron fist squeezed around your heart. He was giving up and you were going to lose him.

You knelt astride his thigh with the heavy wet scarf in your hands and knew you had no other alternative but to wring it out, which you did in the footwell of the passenger seat. You were revolted when the hot smell of it hit your nose so you held your breath, doubled the scarf again, and stuffed it beneath his shirt. You clipped his flack vest closed over it to accomplish the work that his hands should have been doing, though you weren’t sure how much pressure was being applied now. But, however much it was, it was better than nothing.

Trembling, you climbed back behind the wheel and wiped your sweaty face with your sleeve. Dizziness washed over you and your gorge rose threateningly in your throat. You had been so focused on tending to the Captain that you had been ignoring your own injuries.

'Not now,’ you begged, swallowing hard. 'Not now, please, let me get him to safety first.’

You jammed the truck back into gear and pressed down on the pedal. The engine stalled and tears of frustration and helplessness stung your dry eyes.

Please. Please. Just, please help me. Help me!

You jerked the gear shift out and then back into the sticky slot and with the engine screaming in agony and protest, the truck shuddered onward. You looked down at the dusty fuel gauge. The truck was nearly on empty and black thoughts of despair seeped into your consciousness. If you didn’t find any help before the truck died in the vast plains of nowhere, you would have to stay with Syverson and make him as comfortable as you could until he died. And then you’d have to brave the miserable road alone with no food, or water, and only his gun to ensure your survival. At least until the ammo ran out.

The bleak determination of your future instantly unnerved you and you increased the truck’s speed. There was a hill up ahead.

Was the truck was going to make it?

It struggled with the incline but managed to crest the top of the hill, and just as it did, you noticed something in the distance.

Behind a row of concertina wire wrapped wooden sawhorses, big trucks stretched across the road. Uniformed men with guns at the ready came to attention at the sight of your little battered pick-up truck. Highly aware of the weapons being pointed at you now, you slowly, carefully, drove up to the blockade. Nervousness quickened your pulse as a man, with one hand upraised, stepped out. He lazily waved you forward but his actions and body language communicated to you that you should proceed with caution.

You got a look at the man’s sandy brown and black splotched uniform.

Americans!

You stopped the truck and hastily jumped out, hands raised high in the air, yelling, 'Help! Help me, please. I have Captain Syverson with me and he’s wounded! Please help!’

The other men around the blockade suddenly came to attention and began to approach.

'Hold on there!’ shouted the man. 'Stop where you are. You have who now?’

The uniformed man tipped back his helmet a little and slightly lifted the muzzle of his AR-15 in silent warning. You froze to your spot and pointing to the truck you repeated your plea.

'Captain Syverson! We were… s-supply run. I– I’m.. we were… we were…’

You swayed on your feet as the edges of your vision blurred then closed in like an oily black wave. The ground rushed up to meet you when you collapsed and you dimly heard the jumbled voices of the men approaching you. And then, there was nothing.

***

Throbbing bursts of fuzzy-edged splotches pulsed red, yellow and black against the backs of your eyelids.

You could hear the drone of an engine and you opened your eyes.

You were back in that tightly cramped jeep again, listening to your heart thundering in your chest as you stared directly at the man across from you.

Syverson was saying something, shouting it even, but you heard nothing but the drone and the banging of blood gushing in your veins. You held your hands out to him, to grab onto him, but in a blinding flash of light, he was gone and the jeep exploded into bits around you.

You felt yourself burning, flesh searing, and crisping in the fire, and you opened your mouth to scream, only to be finally consumed and reduced to ashes.

Your brain startled awake from the smothering dream but instead of shooting upright to confirm that you were safe, your body only jerked sluggishly, still mired in your medicated pool of awareness.

The bitter scent of disinfectant prickled your nose and you wriggled it in an attempt to scratch the itch. Someone was speaking softly off to your left and you heard the squeak of plastic wheels rolling over a thin plastic floor.

You tried to clear your throat, but nothing but a dry scratching rasp escaped you. You flexed your toes first and then your fingers. They were tightly wrapped, stiff, and a little unresponsive. But they didn’t hurt, so that was either a good thing or a bad thing.

You continued your bodily inspection to make sure that all of your limbs were still intact. Fortunately, they were and you snaked your tongue out to explore your tender chapped lips.

I could really use a lip balm right now, you thought and a giggle that threatened to turn hysterical bubbled up in your throat. You fought it back.

Someone stood over you and a cool rough hand touched your bare arm on that tiny patch of sunburned flesh between where the sleeve of your hospital gown ended and the bandages began.

'You’re awake.’

You turned your head in the direction of the voice. It was a woman and although she sounded tired, her voice was low and gentle.

It took a moment for you to manage to get your tongue and throat to work.

'Oh… everything aches,’ you husked. 'Where am I?’

She recited some complicated name of the military hospital and you just nodded because you caught the word 'hospital’ and that was enough to satisfy you.

'How… how long have I been here?’

'About a week now.’

You finally cracked open your eyes and looked down at one arm and then the other one. They both were swaddled, the bride of Frankenstein-style, and lifting your left arm you felt a sharp tugging pain. Someone had placed an IV drip into the back of your hand and with your eyes, you followed the clear tubing back to the metal IV stand and then looked down at the web of coloured wires that tethered you to the bleating machine by the bed.

Your head started to hurt, so you relaxed again and closed your eyes.

'A week,’ you repeated quietly. 'Ok, that’s good.’

And then you remembered the horror of the desert. You remembered the blood and the pain and the man you’d tried to save.

Your eyes snapped open.

'Captain Syverson. Is he… is he all right?’

'Who?’ she asked, her eyes fixed to the machine.

'Syverson. I came in with him. I came in with an officer, right? Is he ok?’

The nurse picked up a tablet from her cart and typed something on the screen with her fingertip.

'Syverson,’ She said, reading from the screen. 'A Syverson is here, yes. He should still be recovering from surgery.’

'Is there only one here?’ you asked. 'Only one, Syverson?’

'Look like it,’ she answered, assuring you that the Syverson who was recovering from surgery was /your/ Syverson and not some random stranger with the same name.

You nodded and continued to nod as you put your bandaged right hand to your face. You nodded until you started to cry. And then you cried with great gulping sobs, turning your face into the thin pillow to catch your heavy, relieved tears.

'Did you not hear me?’ asked the nurse, sounding worried, misunderstanding the reason behind your tears. 'I said that he was ok. He’s out of surgery.’

'I heard you,’ you blubbered helplessly.

'You’re ok,’ the nurse said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. 'He’s ok, you’re safe now.’

Yes, yes you thought. Safe.

You wiped your face with the tissue she gave you and sniffled noisily.

After a long moment, you spoke.

'Can I… can I see him?’

You looked up at her and saw her eyes sweep the length of your body.

'I don’t think you’re going to be in the position to walk for a little while.’

She glanced at the foot of your bed again and in response, you sluggishly wiggled your tender, swollen toes.

But you were insistent. You had been through so much and being able to lay eyes on him would go a long way to comfort you.

'Surely, there’s a wheelchair around here. Someone can …’

'When you’re both strong enough,’ she interrupted.

Another pat on your shoulder and she withdrew.

You stared after her. What could you do but accept it?

You curled down beneath the thin blanket and turned your head to the window across the room. There was another bed over there, but it was empty save for the neatly folded bed linens and pillows at its foot. You stared at the sharp creases in the white sheets and let your mind wander, remembering the first time the captain took your hand in his.

You were exhausted after a long plane trip and an even longer (and more uncomfortable) truck ride to the base camp.

The afternoon was sweltering and the scent of diesel from the still running heavy truck convoy that had transported you and your colleague to the camp lingered thick in the air. One of the soldiers had ushered you and your colleague to the one of the buildings where you were to wait to meet the man in charge. The only thing you really knew about ‘the man in charge’ was his name and rank, nothing else.

However, when you finally saw him, something within you came alive as you hadn’t seen a man of Captain Syverson’s calibre in quite a long time.

He was tall and broad and carried himself with an air of quiet confidence and menace. His thick beard and buzzed head did not diminish the impression of raw power, they only elevated it to the point where your heart picked up speed when he emerged from the shadows inside the building, descended the concrete stairs, and walked towards you.

His hand was hot and he had enough manners not to pulverise your hand in his grip. So many men thoughtlessly tried to exert their dominance over you through a painful, bone grinding handshake that you had taken to yelling out in pain whenever someone tried to rearrange your knuckles. You had been prepared to do it again when you slipped your hand into the captain’s grip. But his gentleness surprised you.

During the time you spent with him, he continued to surprise you with his husky Texan drawl, his extensive knowledge of every board game that had ever been invented, and his penchant for not using cup handles. No matter how hot the cup was, he would always grab it around the body and hold it with his palm as he drank his morning coffee.

Having already earned the respect of his team, he was a man who had nothing to prove. He had your respect as well, and, maybe a little more, for he was also a man who was easy love.

You drifted to sleep again with thoughts of Syverson’s strong arms around you and the sound of his voice whispering in your ear.

'I’ll protect you. I promise.’

Days drifted by and you recovered without incident. You ate and slept and read and mentally mapped out the article you were going to write once you regained the use of your hands. You planned to make a hero out of Syverson because he deserved that much. And you were going to memorialize your colleague for being the best journalist he could be while giving everything he could in the line of duty.

But that day, you were still weak and even sitting and thinking and staring at the window, sapped your energy. So you slipped down in bed and took a late afternoon nap.

When you woke and opened your eyes, what you saw made you gasp and struggle to push yourself upright. Over the bed loomed the happy face of a bear-shaped balloon that held a heart exclaiming, 'Get Well Soon!’

You whipped a look round the room. Every surface, even the previously empty bed across the room was practically covered with stuffed animals, vases of brightly coloured flower bouquets, and other little sundry items that were only found in the corners of hospital gift shoppes.

The sound of the food cart being wheeled into the room caught your attention. The attendee smiled and lifted off a covered tray and set it on the table next to your bed. He turned to leave and your nurse approached your bed.

'Did I.. sleepwalk into another room?’ you asked, feeling a little panicked. 'This ahh, wasn’t here when I went to sleep.’

With your bandaged hand, you made a jerky gesture to the gifts, and your nurse smiled a little like she knew something you didn’t.

'You have an admirer.’

Your eyes rose to her face and she held up a small white envelope that had an obvious bulge in the bottom.

'And this,’ she said handing it to you and when you cupped your swaddled hands, she dropped it into your palms.

You turned it over and the only writing was your name scrawled across the front. The envelope was sealed but with your hands all buttoned up the way they were you held the envelope back up to the nurse.

'Could you umm… please?’

The nurse opened the envelope and wriggled out the small piece of cardstock from inside. She gave it to you.

You read the note aloud, 'I owe you this, at least.’

The note was signed with an unfamiliar name.

'Henry.’

Then as if on cue, the nurse held the upended envelope, and when you lifted your cupped hand, she dumped the contents onto your palm.

It was a small tube of lip balm.

You looked exasperated at both the note and the lip balm and abruptly a memory clanged into place. You remembered the story behind the lip balm but the name, the name perplexed you.

'Henry?’ you asked the nurse and she frowned a little as a curious smile played around her lips.

'Henry,’ she said as if the answer should have obvious to you.

You stared at her, puzzled. When you didn’t say anything, she added, 'Syverson? Isn’t he your–’

'His name is Henry?!’ you exclaimed and put a hand to your forehead. 'Why can’t I… why don’t I remember that?’

'You’re still recovering from your trauma. Your memory will come back soon, don’t worry.’

The nurse wheeled the table that held your dinner within your reach. You put the envelope and the lip balm on the table. You nodded and when she turned to leave you, you picked up the note again.

'Um, Barb?’ you called.

The nurse turned and returned to the bedside.

'Can I send him a note?’

'Sure, that’s ok, I guess.’

You gave her his note and with a sheepish smile, you held up both your bandaged mitten hands.

'Help?’

She chuckled indulgently, took the note, and pulled a pen from her top pocket.

'Thanks,’ you grinned and after a moment of thought dictated, 'Dear Henry. Thank you for the gifts. I… love them. However, you also owe me some mints as well.’

You grinned to yourself.

'Could you um, put a little smiley face as well?’

The nurse nodded and when she was done, she turned the card around so that you could approve her handiwork.

'Mints?’ she asked, tucking the note and the pen back into her pocket.

'He’ll ummm,’ you giggled feeling a rise of happiness in your chest. 'Don’t worry, he’ll understand.’

Continued in Part IV.

Please like/comment/reblog/follow for more and as always, thanks for your support.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fluff #syverson #captain syverson #syverson x you #syverson x reader #august walker #reader insert

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