Fracking Demon
Jul. 20th, 2018 09:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joegodaInteresting Fact: In 1821, William Hart dug the first successful natural gas well in the U.S. in Fredonia, New York.
Now, I have two heroes who haven't quite met yet, who are on their way to an interesting bit of madness where, in the norther western part of Indian Territory, young Milton Hart (no relation, because one is a real person) has this wild hair idea to use steaming water to open a path down to where he figures to find a pocket of Natural Gas. It's all fun and games and scientific theory until... well, let's just say some days it's best to let sleeping Old Ones lie.
*******
It was on a train leaving a little hole in the desert place called Pesante Deserto that two men of opposite temperments met. It wasn't planned. It wasn't exactly accidental, either. Sometimes the Universe has a way of just... throwing things together and seeing what happens. As John James Lockwell was fond of saying "There is no such thing as an accident, Hart. Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes we just don't know what that reason is."
Standing about two fingers over six feet, Lockwell was lanky and muscular, with sharply chiseled cheekbones under bright eyes the color of robin's eggs. His sandy blond hair was kept at a constant inch and a half length by the meticulous use of a straight razor that was kept in a hidden pocket of Lockwell's left boot. The same razor was used to keep his face shaved so that no stubble ever, ever appeared on it. It was Lockwell's belief that his momma gave him his face, and nothing should ever mar that contribution.
Just as his momma gave him his face, his daddy gave him his constitution and his muscles, having worked the boy from sun up to sun down on a cattle ranch in Montana. Lockwell honored his father by keeping his body in excellent shape and wearing clothing that would let the world know what his parents had given him.
His father, before passing away at the age of fifty, had told his son that the image a man presents to the world is a reflection of the man himself. Lockwell took that bit of advice to heart, and wore his shirts and trousers well, keeping them clean and pressed and presentable to the world at large. His clothing of choice were a red bib shirt, tucked into workman's jeans from the brother Levi in California, held up by narrow suspenders purchased from a company in Austin Texas, who promised that the suspenders were made in France.
His black boots, always kept to a high shine, were simple cowhide, nothing fancy here, as Lockwell knew that boots were as much the sole of a western man as the spirit was the soul of a spiritual man, and if one had to walk fifty miles across the desert, then there was no need for much more than a pair of boots that would last long and hold a good shine. A good shine and the need keep the occasional rattlesnakes fangs at bay.
He cut quite the figure, did John James Lockwell. Men wanted to be him. Women wanted to be near him. Occasionally it also worked out the other way around, but young J.J. Lockwell didn't seem to recognize the interest he caused by his mere passing through. His mamma raised him to respect women, protect the helpless and to treat all men as equals, even bankers.
On the other side of the male spectrum you have Milton Hart.
A wee bit short, such that even when wearing boots with three inch lifts, he stood tall at five and a half feet tall. A bit blind, wearing wired-rim spectacles that hung from his large and nearly pointed ears, the lenses of said spectacles seemed to be carved from the bottoms of whiskey bottles. Orphaned at thirteen when a tragic accident involving a meteor and a picnic in rural Arkansas removed his parents from this plane of existence, Milton was never picked for any side of any sport and was often the butt of many a childish joke at a rather rough and tumble orphanage.
His nickname there was "Mole-face" because his face was round and his nose was narrow and long and his eyes were rather squinty and his mouth was a soft line barely noticed unless he spoke, which was rarely. He was not a terribly attractive child, and other children and sometimes (quite frequently) adults can be incredibly cruel.
He left Arkansas for points west as soon as he was able and he became able when, at 16, he inherited his family farm in Arkansas and was told that the meteor that had killed his parents contained a lot of iron ore, and iron ore, he was told, was worth a lot of money, and the family lawyers saw that a trust was set up, and that trust was payable when he reached that magic age of 16. Oh, and the crater that the meteor created? Full of diamonds. Such is the luck of a child known as Mole-face.
Milton decided to go west because he had heard that there was a lot of open space. Places where nobody lived and Milton was in need of a place where he could just be. Milton was looking for peace and balance before peace and balance was in vogue.
Peace and balance were very important to Milton, as he had had neither since his parents had died and he was placed in that god-awful orphanage. Besides having a face that became the target of the mean spirited, Milton was a very bright child, wildly and sometimes dangerously bright, curious about anything and everything and speculating.
His parents, both well educated and from well to do families far away to the east, encouraged Milton to experiment and do, within reason, whatever his mind could create. Milton had attempted communication with a number of doctors, scientists and engineers, all of whom he followed through literature when he could. As Milton was very young, none of the distinguished men he attempted to contact responded. His parents had subscribed to many scientific, technical and medical journals to try to satisfy their young son's searching mind.
Enough. You get the idea. Milton Hart was a genius, whose mind would wander and speculate and delve deep into the odd and strange and unusual just because he happened to notice the difference in the surface tension of water in a glass and a soap bubble. He would wander off into the distance and be unreachable for hours at a time, without leaving the comfort of his chair. And so...
Now, I have two heroes who haven't quite met yet, who are on their way to an interesting bit of madness where, in the norther western part of Indian Territory, young Milton Hart (no relation, because one is a real person) has this wild hair idea to use steaming water to open a path down to where he figures to find a pocket of Natural Gas. It's all fun and games and scientific theory until... well, let's just say some days it's best to let sleeping Old Ones lie.
It was on a train leaving a little hole in the desert place called Pesante Deserto that two men of opposite temperments met. It wasn't planned. It wasn't exactly accidental, either. Sometimes the Universe has a way of just... throwing things together and seeing what happens. As John James Lockwell was fond of saying "There is no such thing as an accident, Hart. Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes we just don't know what that reason is."
Standing about two fingers over six feet, Lockwell was lanky and muscular, with sharply chiseled cheekbones under bright eyes the color of robin's eggs. His sandy blond hair was kept at a constant inch and a half length by the meticulous use of a straight razor that was kept in a hidden pocket of Lockwell's left boot. The same razor was used to keep his face shaved so that no stubble ever, ever appeared on it. It was Lockwell's belief that his momma gave him his face, and nothing should ever mar that contribution.
Just as his momma gave him his face, his daddy gave him his constitution and his muscles, having worked the boy from sun up to sun down on a cattle ranch in Montana. Lockwell honored his father by keeping his body in excellent shape and wearing clothing that would let the world know what his parents had given him.
His father, before passing away at the age of fifty, had told his son that the image a man presents to the world is a reflection of the man himself. Lockwell took that bit of advice to heart, and wore his shirts and trousers well, keeping them clean and pressed and presentable to the world at large. His clothing of choice were a red bib shirt, tucked into workman's jeans from the brother Levi in California, held up by narrow suspenders purchased from a company in Austin Texas, who promised that the suspenders were made in France.
His black boots, always kept to a high shine, were simple cowhide, nothing fancy here, as Lockwell knew that boots were as much the sole of a western man as the spirit was the soul of a spiritual man, and if one had to walk fifty miles across the desert, then there was no need for much more than a pair of boots that would last long and hold a good shine. A good shine and the need keep the occasional rattlesnakes fangs at bay.
He cut quite the figure, did John James Lockwell. Men wanted to be him. Women wanted to be near him. Occasionally it also worked out the other way around, but young J.J. Lockwell didn't seem to recognize the interest he caused by his mere passing through. His mamma raised him to respect women, protect the helpless and to treat all men as equals, even bankers.
On the other side of the male spectrum you have Milton Hart.
A wee bit short, such that even when wearing boots with three inch lifts, he stood tall at five and a half feet tall. A bit blind, wearing wired-rim spectacles that hung from his large and nearly pointed ears, the lenses of said spectacles seemed to be carved from the bottoms of whiskey bottles. Orphaned at thirteen when a tragic accident involving a meteor and a picnic in rural Arkansas removed his parents from this plane of existence, Milton was never picked for any side of any sport and was often the butt of many a childish joke at a rather rough and tumble orphanage.
His nickname there was "Mole-face" because his face was round and his nose was narrow and long and his eyes were rather squinty and his mouth was a soft line barely noticed unless he spoke, which was rarely. He was not a terribly attractive child, and other children and sometimes (quite frequently) adults can be incredibly cruel.
He left Arkansas for points west as soon as he was able and he became able when, at 16, he inherited his family farm in Arkansas and was told that the meteor that had killed his parents contained a lot of iron ore, and iron ore, he was told, was worth a lot of money, and the family lawyers saw that a trust was set up, and that trust was payable when he reached that magic age of 16. Oh, and the crater that the meteor created? Full of diamonds. Such is the luck of a child known as Mole-face.
Milton decided to go west because he had heard that there was a lot of open space. Places where nobody lived and Milton was in need of a place where he could just be. Milton was looking for peace and balance before peace and balance was in vogue.
Peace and balance were very important to Milton, as he had had neither since his parents had died and he was placed in that god-awful orphanage. Besides having a face that became the target of the mean spirited, Milton was a very bright child, wildly and sometimes dangerously bright, curious about anything and everything and speculating.
His parents, both well educated and from well to do families far away to the east, encouraged Milton to experiment and do, within reason, whatever his mind could create. Milton had attempted communication with a number of doctors, scientists and engineers, all of whom he followed through literature when he could. As Milton was very young, none of the distinguished men he attempted to contact responded. His parents had subscribed to many scientific, technical and medical journals to try to satisfy their young son's searching mind.
Enough. You get the idea. Milton Hart was a genius, whose mind would wander and speculate and delve deep into the odd and strange and unusual just because he happened to notice the difference in the surface tension of water in a glass and a soap bubble. He would wander off into the distance and be unreachable for hours at a time, without leaving the comfort of his chair. And so...
(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-23 01:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-23 03:34 am (UTC)