Not much to report on the war front yesterday. Things were mostly quiet in the places I patrolled. I did finish blowing up an AC-ME Giant Secure Can that Miss Iron had been shooting at as a gunnery test, but that — needless to say — was not very exciting.
Later I was sitting in a station exchanging a flurry of emails with Chebri on the nature of truth (and boy, was that ever a waste of time, I swear it’s like trying to discuss motorcycle safety with Evel Knievel, or religious freedom with Janet Reno) when Murdock Jones showed up in his Brutix and began to camp for me.
I was getting pretty close to bedtime, so I thought I’d just let him camp while I took care of correspondence, but then TorpedoTed logged in, and Miss Iron, and before I knew it, they had launched a scheme in which Torpedo Ted was the small distracting flashy thing on the line six inches above the bait and Miss Iron was the large bait ball with the hook in it and I was the guy with the stick who was supposed to whack the fish until it stopped twitching.
Long story short, it didn’t work. Jones was a good sport and pleasant company in local, but, as expected, the armor tank on his Brutix was more than my Manticore could bust in a hurry. We were all limited by the ships and hardware that were nearby, and with available hulls we didn’t have anything that could (a) grab him and keep him grabbed long enough for a stealth bomber to kill him or (b) presuming they could grab him, survive long enough while holding him for the the stealth bomber to get the job done.
We ran the routine twice. The second time, lacking the element of surprise, I think we just did it because we were all having fun and Jones hoped we’d mess up fatally. Or perhaps he merely hoped that I would mess up fatally; on the second pass, I think he may have refrained from squishing TorpedoTed like a bug at a moment when it looked like he had the chance to do so.
And then it was bedtime. Thanks, Murdock Jones, for reminding me of why it is that I’ve usually enjoyed having AC-ME in local.
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