Rigging walloped the Wisp isthmus with a vengeance. Rigs to melt permafrost for pus collection. Rigs to truck scoop to reservoirs. Rigs to tanker and pipe it to spillways and railheads. Rigs to salvage grounded and derailed carriers.
Plants burgeoned like twinkling fairy cities in the night. Plants to introduce gain of function additives. Plants to process pus derivatives into plastics and personal lubricant and coffee whitener.
Support and service jobs broke out like plethoras. Jobs to do and undo, start and stop, perforate and plug, buy and sell, furnish and dispose, advise and teach, protect and serve, adjudicate and snuff. Odd jobs, hand jobs, put-up jobs. Jobs to stencil “Danger” whereall it needed to go.
Everywhere you looked there were pieces of work; both hard and soft labor found at the drop of a hat in the teeming, melt-field pus camps; temp gigs and side hustles and life hacks galore in the honkytonks and greasy spoons that bloomed like venus flytraps along the shorelines of runoff lagoons.
Just how and whether Todd’s ancestor Astrid issued from this rowdy mileu remains to be seen. What’s important to remember here is that there are more plausibilities than the deniable kind, no matter how lustily Texas governors assert the contrary. Let’s put a pin in it there.
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