Word: putridity
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...solo reconnaissance mission. Eager to prove himself, Feng slithered down into the darkness with only a rope as a guide. But upon reaching the floor of the tomb, he was overwhelmed by the smell. Feng remembers nothing after that. Later his uncle told him he had fainted from the putrid air and had to be dragged out. The operation was halted until the next night when the looters lugged in an industrial air blower to clear out the tomb. After his uncle and another villager emerged with the first of five Tang-dynasty ceramic animals--each worth about...
...bats started making their home under the red roof during Khmer Rouge rule, when the museum was vacant. By the early 1990s, curators were desperate to evict them as droppings?up to a ton a month?coated the artifacts below and threatened to collapse the second-floor ceiling. A putrid stench distracted gallery patrons, and on one memorable occasion, bat lice in the air elicited an allergic reaction from a visiting Thai princess...
...investors, cash is no longer trash--it's toxic. With short-term yields at 1.4% and inflation around 1.6%, the real return on cash is a putrid -0.2%. Holding cash has suddenly become a sure way to lose money. Why, then, has Oracle hoarded $5 billion in cash? How come Cisco--which last week raised its earnings projections--has $7.5 billion stuffed under its mattress? And why has Microsoft piled up a mountain of cash $38.2 billion high? Just how rainy a day is Bill Gates expecting, anyway...
...first couple of days, Mike did not come home at all. Like firemen across the city and country, he worked 24-hour shifts, much of it on the pile, the putrid 16-acre wasteland where the laws of time and space simply do not abide. "We'd be working in one place for a bit, and they'd blow the horn and tell us to run because another building might collapse on us, and then they'd bring us back to the same place two hours later," he recalls. "You'd be doing your work, and then...
...hence scoffed at by the newshound bosses—and because The Crimson was tight on space, the three of us were exiled to the most dismal sub-sub-basement, a cave at the bitter end of the cellar, past the presses and the half-tone machine. Our putrid little home glistened with slime-mold, reeked of ink, photo chemicals, and rot, and was cluttered with mysterious tin buckets sloshing with murky green chemicals. The stink would make us slightly queasy, but during good weeks, also slightly stoned. It was wonderful! I still miss...