November 29, 2001

Hi Kit,

I'm going to try and respond to this in word.  I hope you 
can accept word.  ? I'll be changing ink-color and all that.  
Looks like you're working on a long arc of Storm here.  
You are such a subtle but powerful author.  Things are 
happening with Storm and your slowly building that this is 
a woman who is frightened, ill at ease, out of sorts, and 
plagued with self-doubt at the mo'.  

I've got small bits mostly.  First I'm gonna write 'em down.  
Then I'm gonna work and see what fits.


-Kitty-

In a section of her workroom clear of Forge's stuff, Kitty 
stood over a partially unrolled sheaf of dusty, faded 
schematics of the Xavier institute.  She pressed a yellow 
bandana over her mouth while she studied documents that 
dated from the original construction of the house by the 
light of an adjustable fluorescent lamp.

"Hrm," Kitty said, her finger tracing the location of the 
spring fed cold house which used to be by the outdoor 
kitchen which was now - sheets of paper rustled and slid as 
she moved the old designs over for the recent grounds map 
- the chapel cemetery?  The bandanna fell from Kitty's 
hand as she bent forward while reaching for the fluorescent 
lamp and bring it and her head closer to the old schematics.  
Where was the well?  There had to have been a well for 
water back then.  And it wasn't by the cold house…. 
Kitty's finger, bitten back nail and dry cuticle, traced 
around and around until she did indeed spot the well.  
"Bingo!"

"What's this got to do with Skrull code?" Forge asked at 
her shoulder.  His breath smelled like fresh coffee.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people," she grumped, 
scrolling closed the designs.  His large, fine-boned, red-
skinned hand flattened a corner open.  

"1855," he read from the upper left hand corner.  "We've 
got the architectural designs for the Institute going back to 
the late eighteen hundreds on database."  

"Don't like ESRI." Kitty pronounced but he was already 
walking away from her and heading towards his temporary 
workstation, complete with desk and bank of flat screen 
computers and ergonomic pullout everything.  His black 
hair, longer and thicker than hers, snaked down his back 
from a leather-cinched ponytail.

He favored her with a dubious look.

"I don't like ESRI," Kitty insisted.  

"That mean we're not working today?"  Forge asked, 
hitting power buttons and flipping toggles in rows as he 
turned on his system.  "You're the one who called me in to 
help you with security."

Kitty's nostrils flared but she did not share that the 
Professor had suggested she call Forge and speed up the 
process.  

Strings of code appeared on the central screen of Forge's 
computer bank.  He stood with his hands planted on the 
pullout keyboard drawer.  He squinted as he scanned the 
code as quickly as it appeared.

"We've got this water problem," Kitty said.

"Took a shower earlier this morning," Forge answered 
turning off his system.

"City water.  We can't afford city water."

He stared at her.

"Not for long anyway. Have you considered making a 
donation to the school yet?"

"Pryde," he took a deep breath.  The words that followed 
were measured, even.  He was being patient, and this only 
made Kitty screw up her face in annoyance.  "I'm here for 
one reason, one reason only, and specifically at your 
request. And, you're no hydrogeologist."  He ducked under 
his desk.  He was a bendy one, managing to fit his length 
beneath it though his legs went on and on against the floor, 
ending in duct-taped cowboy boots. 

Kitty could hear the 'fsst' noise of an air duster.  Forge 
cleaned his station before and after every use.  It was wild.  
Fsst!  Fsst! Fsst! Before and after he powered down. 
"Forge!" she yelled.  The fssting noise stopped.  His foot 
began to bend back and forth.

How was she going to put this?  "You've built a house 
from scratch before, right?" 

Forge's foot stilled.  

Kitty winced.  Forge crabbed out from under his desk.  
Pens tumbled from his chambray shirt pocket and he 
reached for them.  When he lifted his head to address Kitty 
it was doubly red.  Kitty told herself it was from blood 
pooling in his features but she knew better.

"With running water, right? And, and --"

"Storm told you."

She nodded.

"I've built a house before. From scratch. Not the same 
thing you want to do." He gripped the back of his chair, 
punctuated that movement by extending and retracting his 
chin.

"I'll be down in the tunnels.  Don't test those security 
protocols until I get back."  

"Right," Forge answered, his mechanical hand holding the 
chair steady while he lowered himself into it.  Kitty spared 
him a glance, noted the breadth of his shoulders, the size of 
his arms, the fluid yet massive grace of them and shook her 
head. Storm had her reasons, but Kitty very much doubted 
that they went beyond the aesthetic.  Falling in love with 
Forge that was.  Not being in love with Forge anymore - 
and, oh god she hoped so, well - Kitty got that just fine.

Forge, deep in study, made a noncommittal grunt seconds 
after Kitty had exited the room.  Her work area looked as 
cluttered as normal, and even the dust from old designs had 
been wiped away by the yellow bandana that had been 
shoved into the bottom of the wastepaper basket by the 
door. 

I don't know if this should follow her training session with 
Marrow, or not.  Also, I don't know why she's so grumpy.  
Perhaps she's a girl genius out-classed.  Maybe it's out of 
loyalty to Storm. Maybe it's because Forge is hard to deal 
with (apparently, he's borderline obsessive-compulsive) or 
maybe it's because Forge has better toys.


Dressed in her super-comfy jeans, knock-around-boots that 
had become an indeterminate color long-ago but were still 
watertight, and a black, long sleeved, colorless, thins late 
lycra tea-shirt (gray crab work stitching on the shoulder 
seams), Kitty descended into what had formally been the 




From :   Kassia <kassia06@yahoo.com>  
To :   "E. Bird" <ebonbird@hotmail.com>  
Subject :   More for next chapter  
Date :   Fri, 9 Nov 2001 13:27:06 -0800 (PST)  

Storm stood still by the stove and allowed the steam
to hit her face, the screeching kettle merely white
noise in the background. She rubbed the sleep from her
eyes, and turned as she heard a soft tread behind her.

Sarah was sucking on a cut lower lip as she plodded
into the kitchen, and her left eye was beginning to
swell. She made a beeline for the refrigerator, and
unless that head toss had been a greeting rather than
a method of removing hair from the eyes, Marrow gave
Storm no sign of acknowledgement.

The younger woman frowned at the contents of the
fridge for a moment, then slammed the door shut with a
muttered curse. Then, as if noticing Storm's scrutiny
for the first time, she turned to face her. She stuck
out her cut lower lip, and lifted her chin defiantly,
as if in challenge.

A number of questions sprang to Storm's mind as she
watched the girl. She settled on what seemed the
safest. Turning off the stove, she said brightly,
"Tea?"

"No."

People shouldn't have to put up with surly children
this early, Storm reflected, pouring the boiling water
into the teapot. "There's an icepack in the freezer,"
she added.

"Huh."

Marrow seemed disinclined to seek out the ice pack,
and Storm wasn't about to persist. *Rebel against my
disinterest if you can, child.* She sat down at the
kitchen table, tented her fingers, and watched out the
window while the tea steeped. The other X-Woman
hovered in the kitchen for a moment, then flung open
the fridge door with one swift, frustrated movement,
grabbed an apple, and marched out. Storm smiled.

"I'm famished," declared a cheerful voice. Storm,
still maintaining her outward appearance of serenity
to a degree that would do a Zen master proud, turned
her head to regard the newest intruder. It was Kitty
and- Storm blinked- she was sporting a bandage on her
forehead. Kitty got herself some corn flakes and sat
down a few chairs over. Storm rose to pour herself
some tea.

"So," she said conversationally, "did you get up this
early on a whim, or was it actually for the purpose of
fighting with Marrow?"

"For the purpose, of course." Kitty shoveled into her
cereal with relish. "She really has promise. Well,
obviously. We all know what she can do. But she's
sloppy."

Storm raised her eyebrows, waiting for the whole
situation to be explained.

Kitty took it as an invitation to expand upon her
topic. "But I guess that's a rather hypocritical
accusation, 'cause I let myself get sloppy, too. As
you no doubt gleaned from Marrow's appearance."
Kitty's energetic manner became suddenly
introspective. "It's good for both of us, since we
have no compunctions about hurting each other, but
that results in less controlled, less refined
techniques."

Storm nodded sagely, and sipped her tea.

"I'll be happy when Kurt's ankle gets better. But now
I can see just how much I'm out of practice. These new
training sessions were a really good idea of-" a
slight tremor in her voice, "course." She looked
thoughtfully at Storm. "We need all the practice we
can get. Uh, how goes it on the domestic side?"

Storm was stunned to silence by the idea of being the
domestic side of anything, so it was perhaps fortunate
that Marrow tromped in at that moment and tossed her
apple core in the sink. Kitty could attribute Storm's
suddenly wide eyes and tightened lips to that,
instead.

"I am sure that you will regain your control and
refinement in battle with time, Kitten," Storm said,
choosing to ignore the last question. She could see
Marrow smirk as she took out a package of cookies.

Kitty glanced warily at Marrow. "I hope so." She
swiveled her head and said placatingly in Marrow's
direction, "Sorry about your f- the injuries."

"Don't apologize to me, Kitten," her voice was angry
and mocking at the same time. "You meant to draw
blood, same as me." She stuffed about three cookies in
her mouth and sauntered out, nose in the air, chewing
loudly the whole time.

Storm watched her leave, then turned to Kitty. "So,
are these training sessions to become a daily thing?"

"Every other day, I think," she replied, with a
lopsided grin. "But it depends on the number of
people. I really want to train with Logan again, if
only I could get him to stay still long enough to do
anything so mundane as training."

"Training with this group is never mundane," sighed
Storm.

"Too true." Kitty lifted the bowl to her lips and
finished off her milk, favored Storm with a
half-salute, and left, pausing to throw the apple core
in the trash can on the way.

* * *

Bobby was half-way down the stairs when the voices
reached a volume he could hear. It was impossible to
make out most of what was being said, but the swear
words were unmistakable.

"Fuck, Maddie. What the hell were you thinking? Do you
realize-" There was a soft, somewhat weary-sounding
interjection, a mumble at this distance, then a
snippy, condescending reply. Bobby retreated as softly
as possible up the staircase. The voices seemed to
grow louder in proportion to the increase in distance,
though, and he found himself retreating a few more
steps into the bathroom.

The bathroom door didn't lock- it never had for as
long as Bobby could remember. He sat on the floor,
with his back pressed against the door to keep it
shut. A bathroom without a lock was a better sanctuary
than a bedroom with one. People were more wary of
entering an occupied bathroom than their son's
bedroom. The familiar tones could still be heard
through the door, and his stomach knotted in response,
but he could no longer make out any words. Not even
four-letter ones.

He hugged his knees, automatically falling into the
same old position. His eyes traced the cracks in the
ceiling, but either the cracks had changed, or his
eyes had, because he could no longer find in them the
pictures he had thought to be so distinctive as a
child. The tiles used to have pictures, too, but they
had been redone.

There was the drip-drip-drip of the faucet, which
pounded on his brain like he was being subjected to
Chinese water torture. He considered doing something
about it, but, for some inscrutable reason, decided
against it. Maybe he just felt more comfortable
keeping his back to the door.

The voices were subsiding gradually. He looked down at
himself, and the part of him that had actually grown
up was surprised to be seeing himself here again,
sitting like this, listening to the angry voices
through the door. That part of his brain told him to
stop being an idiot, stand up for God's sake, but the
habits of childhood won over. There was a moment of
silence, and he thought he heard a door slam. He
wasn't sure, so he waited a few more minutes. He got
up, splashed his face with water, rubbed his eyes, and
then pressed his ear against the door. He opened it
slowly, tip-toed out, and started cautiously down the
stairs.

He could hear his mother's voice, reassuringly soft
though a tad distressed. Perhaps his dad hadn't left
as Bobby had thought. He stood in the kitchen a
moment, and listened intently.

"No, no. Don't say that.... I just don't know what to
do sometimes when... Yes, right." And then a breathy,
small, "I love you."

She was on the phone.

Bobby went quietly back upstairs.

* * *

There was a knock on the door, Bobby's back stiffened.
He turned from his contemplation of the ceiling,
picked up the book resting on his beside table, and
opened it to a random page. "Come in."

Bobby practically melted into the bed with relief when
Warren poked his head through the door, rather than
Mr. or Mrs. Drake. "War, come in. What the hell are
you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd drop in to say hello. Your mom told
me you were hiding up here. Wanna go to lunch?"

"So you thought, I'm hungry, I'll swing by New Jersey
and see if Bobby also wants food."

Warren bobbed his head. "That's about it, yeah."

"Warren," said Bobby, suddenly feeling very smiley,
"you're a saint. Lem'me get my shoes and we're outta
here."

"Well, also Betsy said I was mopey and needed to do
something like this," Warren said to Bobby, as he
bulleted past to the door. Bobby waved Betsy's part in
his friend's actions aside, and rushed down the stairs
as noisily as possible. Warren followed at a more
staid pace.

* * *

"Bobby, if it's getting to you that much, just talk to
her."

Bobby stared at Warren as if he had just sprouted
another head. Actually, that concept was less
repulsive than Warren's suggestion. "Are you crazy? Do
you know how horribly awkward that would be? What
emotional scenes could ensue? I just got a semi-normal
relationship with my dad. I'm not gonna ruin my
relationship with my *nice* parent."

"I know, I know. But you have to make exceptions. This
is eating away at you."

"I can't ask her, Warren. Put yourself in my
position."

Made brave by the fact that he wasn't in Bobby's
position, Warren replied immediately, "I'd just catch
her alone, ask her for an honest answer and..." Warren
suddenly realized Bobby was eyeing him with a
speculative gleam in his eye. "What?"

"Warren," said Bobby in a singsong voice, laying down
his hamburger, "would you mind very much..."

"No way in hell."

"But you just said..."

"I am not asking your mother if she's cheating on your
dad. No fucking way."

"You could ask as a friend of hers. Pretend it's not
for me. Be all tactful about it."

"There's no tactful way to ask if someone's cheating
on their spouse."

"Warren, it's eating away at me!" Bobby declaimed
melodramatically.

"Then you'll just have to ask her yourself. Family
business."

"You're like a brother to me."

"So's Hank."

"But you're closer to my mom."

"Right. More of a relationship to ruin."

"Listen, if something goes wrong, what's the worst
that can happen? You don't have to eat my mom's food
anymore."

Warren shook his head emphatically, and Bobby looked
so crestfallen that he added reassuringly, "Listen
Bobby, I've spoken with your mom a good deal, and if
it makes you feel any better, I don't think she's
having an affair. Women, especially older women, who
are cheating on their husbands tend to have a certain
air about them..." He trailed off, realizing Bobby was
given him a rather odd look. He cleared his throat.
"Anyway, maybe it's none of your business."

Bobby nodded, and looked away from Warren. "You're
right, of course," he said, voice trembling slightly.
"I'm- I'm sorry I even asked you to do such a stupid
thing." He rubbed his eyes, quickly, and turned back
to Warren with an unconvincing smile plastered to his
face, and said, with cheer as false as his smile, "I'm
just going to let it go, people do all that at the
time, right? Shouldn't be that hard."

Warren's mouth tightened with concern. "Bobby..."

"Don't, Warren. Please, don't."

Warren regarded his friend's ghastly smile and damp
eyes and said, "If it means that much to you... okay,
I'll ask her."

"Really? You promise?"

He answered, "Promise," before Bobby's calculating
look had registered.

Bobby cheered up with suspicious speed once Warren had
uttered the word 'Promise'. "Thanks, War, you're a
real pal."

"You tricked me! You weren't on the verge of tears or
anything!"

Bobby chortled. "You've promised already, no going
back."

"There is if you tricked me..." began Warren.

"Nope, nope. Your word of honor. A sacred bond." His
face suddenly took on a look of exaggerated solemnity,
and he pronounced, "A Worthington does not go back on
his word."

"Son of a bitch," said Warren.

"That," said Bobby, "is inaccurate."

* * *

It was rare that Professor Xavier let emotion overcome
him, at least in front of his five young students, but
this time was a notable exception. The first
overpowering emotion which showed on his face was
shock, but the four assembled boys standing across
from him all had an uncomfortable feeling it would
soon be replaced by anger.

"You did... what?" the professor asked faintly.

The four boys looked at each other, and seemed to
tacitly appoint Scott as spokesman. Scott cleared his
throat and asked diffidently, "Which of us did what,
sir?"

"That was a plural 'you'. As in, using your combined
talents, what have you managed to destroy, and how is
the car involved?"

"I wouldn't say it was destroyed..." Hank began.

Scott's eyes glinted with amusement. "Try
obliterated."

Bobby put in, "I'd just like to say that I had nothing
to do with any of this."

"I sure didn't see you trying to stop us," said
Warren, with a dark look at the youngest X-Man.

"I didn't travel back in time and fling myself in
front of the bullet that killed Lincoln, either. Gonna
blame that one on me, too?"

"If you go by that analogy," said Hank, "then you're
the guy egging on John Wilkes Booth, so maybe you'd
better let it drop."

"Much like War here let that gasoline canister drop,
I suppose."

"I thought it was closed! I'm not the one who didn't
put the lid back on highly flammable material, okay?"

They went on, arguing pointlessly for a little while
longer before they at last recalled that such a
display would do little to assuage Xavier's anger. But
it was perhaps just as well for the Professor's
fearful reputation that they were distracted. As it
was, Scott was the only one who saw the quickly
suppressed smile that flickered across Xavier's face.

* * *

Storm glanced into Xavier's office. It seemed to be
whispering to her, which was insane, but not
unpleasant. Memories. Not all hers, but some were, and
each room had a different set.

Jean decked out in her wedding dress. Storm, secretly,
disliked its design, but Jean had made it beautiful.

Since Xavier seemed to be somewhere else, she drifted
down the hall towards the staircase.

Xavier and Forge playing chess, the two extremely
intelligent men so pleased to be able to play a game
without seeming childish- though the delight they took
in checkmating each other rivaled any five year olds'
delight at winning a game.

There was no one around, which was wrong. You'd think
the place would always be swarming, as it seemed to be
in memory.

Jubilee rollerblading down the hall despite being
told, time and time again, not to. Or maybe, upon
reflection, *because* she was told time and time again
not to.

Storm mounted the stairs towards the attic.

Basketball, never just a game, always an event. Rogue,
propelled by a kinetically charged basketball,
crashing through the wall. Or so she had heard, and
the giant hole in the wall had seemed to indicate that
Jubilee had not exaggerated.

A voice made her pause on the stairs. She turned
around, to see Kitty. Kitty, a small, gracile
creature, a dancer, ingenuously telling Storm that she
had never seen anybody like her before, her young girl
eagerness making the simple words into an extremely
gratifying compliment.

"Ororo?"

Storm blinked away the young girl in her mind's eye
and focused on the young woman standing at the bottom
of the stairs. "Sorry?"

"Could you spare a minute?"

"I think so. What for?"

"I was hoping we could try the new communicators out
in some adverse weather conditions, and the equipment
we have can only simulate so much. Would you be so
good as to summon us up a storm?"

Storm started back down the stairs. "I will see what I
can do."

The rain coming fast and thick, pounding aggressively
on the small, sad, white-haired girl- and then the
sudden rush that she still felt sometimes even these
days, the rush of realizing she had caused *that*.

Rogue was waiting in the entrance hall for them.
Rogue, new to the team, trusted by no one, mistrusting
everyone- but trying so hard. Heartbreakingly hard.
She had worn green, then. Storm had always preferred
the green, but nobody asked her about these things.

"Storm, girl, ya gotta pay attention." The image of
the memory-Rogue vanished before Rogue's amused voice.
"Ah don't want ya zappin' me while Ah'm up there."

"The things you ask of me! Next you will be asking me
to make small, *friendly* lightning bolts."

"If you could make them small..." began Kitty, but
stopped at an exasperated look from Storm.

They went outside, and walked to area of the grounds
chosen for the experiment, though Storm doubted her
ability to keep a thunderstorm so contained that it
would not spread to the whole of the grounds.

"Colossus has one inside the mansion, too. These
things are heavy duty- distance is no problem- but I'm
not sure how they're gonna respond to close-by
electrical interference."

Rogue nodded. "And if the X-Men are gonna be using
'em, they need to work while whoever's got them is
dodging lightning bolts."

Storm nodded absently, closed her eyes, and worked her
magic.

*Because it is magic.* The skies opened when she told
them to. That went beyond a mutation. That ran deeper
than any power that resulted from a genetic mistake.

*Let's not get carried away,* she thought to herself,
with a rueful inner smile. *You already did the
goddess bit.*

"Um, that's a start," Rogue said after what must have
been close to ten minutes.

Storm opened her eyes and looked distastefully at the
pathetic drizzle she had created.

"I guess the weather conditions aren't conducive to
creating a thunderstorm," said Kitty. "'S'all right.
We'll try again later."

Storm tightened her lips and the patronization she
sensed in their voices. "Give me a moment."

A little time passed. It felt like a lot of time. Each
additional lightning-less second was an embarrassment,
though she knew it shouldn't have been.

She wanted to stamp. She wanted to scream. She wanted
to go up there and strangle the stupid, un-thundering
clouds. Instead, she contented herself with glaring
fiercely at them.

The rain began to fall, fast and hard. There was a
distant rumble, and then a louder, closer one.

"All yours, ladies," she said, favoring the rain
clouds with a smug look. "Enjoy."

She walked away, but she didn't go inside. Instead,
she sat down on the porch and watched the lightning
and rain, and tried to forget that, for a quarter of
an hour, the skies had completely ignored her.

* * *

"Warren, hello. Would you like to join us for dinner?
We won't be eating for about an hour, but-"

"Thanks very much, but I can't."

"He's spent the whole damn day with me, Mom. I'm sure
he needs a break now."

"Nonsense. How could someone need a break from you,
dear?"

"Beats me, Mom. The spaghetti sauce smells like
heaven."

"It's just garlic so far, dear." Maddy Drake turned to
Warren and said candidly, "It's just that Willy's not
eating with us tonight, and he's usually the person
that eats the most food, and I can't stand too much
leftovers."

"Ya know," Bobby went on, "I've been in lots of
different countries, and several different dimensions,
and not a few different time periods, and I never
found better spaghetti sauce than yours, Mom."

Warren glanced over at Bobby. "You're father's out,
huh?"

"Nothing to compare to it," said Bobby. "No sirree."

"I suppose I could brush of my other engagement. I'd
be happy to eat with you tonight."

"You gonna ask her?" Bobby asked, looking doubtful.
"Tonight?"

Warren smiled, a smile that had made better men than
Robert Drake long to punch him in the nose. "No,
Bobby. I'm gonna make sure *you* ask her."

* * *

Lately, Bobby's life had seemed to revolve around food
and house repairs. He supposed he could get used to
it, if only meal times would stop being so
excruciatingly painful.

"What's the matter, honey?" said his oh-so-helpful
mother. "You look distracted."

"Actually," Warren put in, as Bobby hesitated, "he did
have a question he wanted to ask you. Later, though."

"You can ask me now, Bobby, if you want. What is it?"

"Huh? Nothing. I don't know what Warren is talking
about."

"Yes, you do."

"Bobby?"

"Nothing." He stabbed his food violently, glowering
into his mashed potatoes. "I have nothing to ask
anyone."

"Okay..." Maddie said, looking rather bemusedly
between Warren and her son. "You don't *have* to ask
me anything."

Warren frowned at him. Bobby glared in return, put his
fork down, and said politely to his mother, "Actually,
I did have a question, come to think of it." He heard
Warren inhale sharply, and smiled. "Mom, would you
mind very much if I went back to the X-Men? I don't
think Dad needs any more help on the house, though if
you want me to stay longer I can."

"Oh, honey, this is your home, too. You can come and
go as you please. Though of course I appreciate you
telling me before you do either."

"Of course." Bobby smiled brightly and falsely, even
as Warren kicked him sharply under the table.

After dinner, Bobby followed Warren into the hallway.
"You should've just done it," Warren said, as he took
his jacket off the hook by the door, and arranged his
wings to fit underneath it.

"Why do you do that?" Bobby asked.

Warren raised his eyebrows. "Which? Insult you? Or
wear a jacket?"

"No, cover up the wings. You shouldn't wear them
wrapped up all the time. I mean, what're people gonna
do, see you walking down the street and scream 'Hey!
Let's attack the man with angel wings!'"

Warren licked his lips together and glanced sideways,
apparently at the photograph of some of Bobby's
cousins hanging on the wall. He stepped back, opened
the door, and glanced outside before turning back to
Bobby and asking, "Are you going to ask her now, or
stop angsting over it?"

Bobby shrugged. "Stop angsting, I guess. I've got a
feeling I know the answer already, anyway."

"First of all, you have no idea what's going on, and
don't pretend you do. For God's sake, you'd think you
didn't even know your own mother!" He ignored Bobby's
murmured, I feel like I don't, and continued, "Second
of all, when the hell are you going to grow up,
Drake?"

Bobby pressed his lips together and didn't deign to
reply. Mainly because he couldn't think of a good
one.


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