David Gerrold - Chtorr 3 - A Rage for Revenge

The War Against the Chtorr: Book Three

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A Rage for Revenge

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David Gerrold

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for Frank Robinson, with love

Author's Introduction

I am going to break Rule Two.

Rule One is: Never bore the audience.

Rule Two: Never explain your work. Especially don't explain it, before.

I am now going to break Rule Two. Flagrantly.

This particular episode of The War Against The Chtorr includes a number of chapters of heavily didactic

material. I am concerned that some of this material may need to be annotated. I would hope that I am

wrong, but for reasons that should become abundantly clear long before you get to the end of the book, I

choose to err on the side of caution.

This book is didactic. It needs to be didactic.

There is nothing inherently right or wrong in a book being didactic-although some critics and reviewers

have taken the position that didacticism in a work of fiction is only slightly more offensive than spitting on

the Madonna. The truth is that didacticism is only a description, not a judgment; it is not a quality that can

be assigned rightness or wrongness. The use of the didactic technique, however, can be judged either

clumsy or exquisite, and that is a judgment that is always appropriate for people who need to have

opinions about other people's opinions. My dictionary defines "didactic" this way:

1. intended for instruction.

2. preaching or moralizing.

Both definitions of the word are appropriate to this work. This is your warning. This book preaches and

moralizes. It is also intended for instruction.

And therein lies the danger.

(Bear with me. This is going to take some explaining.)

In books one and two of this series, A Matter For Men and A Day For Damnation, the hero of the

narrative, Jim McCarthy, has encountered several graduates of a course called The Mode Training. In

the context of the stories, it is apparent that The Mode Training is a well-known and somewhat respected

course, though not without its skeptical observers and detractors.

In book three of this series, the book you are holding now, McCarthy participates in the six-week course

called The Mode Training.

I want this to be absolutely clear:

There is no such thing as The Mode Training. It is a fictitious course.

It does not exist.

It is not based on any specific course of instruction that I know of that is available anywhere on Earth.

The Mode Training, the name as well as the idea behind it, is copyright to me, David Gerrold, 1988. It is

not for sale. It is not for rent. It is not for lease. The course is not available under any circumstances. I

have no intention of authorizing such a course. It is a fiction and I intend that it remain so. This is the most

responsible position that I can take in regard to a totally fictitious seminar series.

I say that because I do not want anyone-especially unqualified charlatans-setting up any kind of course

based on this work. I have extrapolated this "technology of consciousness" as a place for the reader to

visit only so that he or she may consider its nature. By no means should anyone consider The Mode

Training as a real or even as a possible event.

(I particularly do not want to attend a science fiction convention and discover to my horror that someone

has appointed himself a "Foreman" and is charging $5 a head to abuse an unsuspecting audience. Worse,

I do not want anyone to think that such an experience validates them as an enlightened human being. If

enlightenment were that easy-well, never mind; that's a whole other story.)

Let me also take this opportunity to discuss the source material for The Mode Training.

First, let me tell you what it is not bawd an,

The Mode Training is not based on Lifespring, Summit, Insight, Esalen, The Experience, or any other

workshop, course, or seminar series. It is not derived from Dianetics, Scientology, The Rosicrucians,

Silva Mind Control, Science of Mind, or any other religious study.

However, the extrapolation of such a course as The Mode Training is based on the fact that such courses

as the ones listed above do exist. In fact, only a few years ago, the United States Army was investigating

the possibility of adapting or including the est training as part of its basic training procedures for new

recruits. That triggered this thought: What would a military version of est be like? No, forget est for a

minute-that carries connotations that I don't want attached to this idea. But do consider this: What would

a nation be like if its process of education was not one of indoctrination, but training? What if human

beings could actually be trained to succeed-not only in their personal lives, but in their larger

responsibilities to family, nation, and species? What would it be like to live among such people?

I was fascinated with the thought, intrigued by the idea of a nation training itself to be responsible. It was

a remarkable question to consider. What will the next step in the evolution of human consciousness look

like?

It was early in the writing of this book that I realized that it was not sufficient to extrapolate simply the

alien ecology of the Chtorr; I also had to extrapolate a believable future for the Earth. It is unacceptable

for a novel of the future to demonstrate only the technological advances that could occur in the next fifty

years; a truly visionary novel must also explore the spiritual and psychological shifts that are possible, and

how they might have come about.

I have to acknowledge that the question demanded considerable research into a number of courses,

seminars, workshops, and even a couple of cults. I was looking for the underlying principles behind their

ability to produce results. I became fascinated by the philosophical as well as the psychological

underpinnings of many of these courses, and the astute reader may notice the occasional sideways

reference here and there; however, no specific influence should be considered the sole source material or

foundation for The Mode Training.

If anything, The Mode Training is nothing more than the study of Zen, as taught by a rather savage

Socratic dialogue.

I make no claims that The Mode Training is anything more than the extrapolation of a possibility. That's

all that it has ever been intended to be.

It is not an opinion.

It is not a prediction.

It is not a warning.

It is only an extrapolation. I like to play with ideas. I was interested in the idea of a "Mode Training" and I

took it as far as I could for the sheer fun of seeing how far I could take it. Anyone who tries to read

anything deeper into the Mode chapters will only be making an ass of himself.

Which brings me to my last point:

Please do not assume that because something is written in this book or in this series, that I endorse it or

that it represents my personal philosophy. It may; equally, it may not. I have deliberately written much

into these books that I disagree with, if for no other reason than to confound critics and academics, but

primarily because you cannot have an interesting argument unless both sides get a fair hearing. In either

case, armchair analysts will be on much safer ground to assert that my characters have seized the

responsibility of speaking for themselves and their own concerns.

If you find the didactic parts of this book to be disturbing, troublesome, or annoying, then please consider

them to be successful. They will have accomplished their job; because that is exactly what they were

intended to do.

--David Gerrold , Hollywood, 1988

THANK YOU:

Dennis Ahrens, Seth Breidbart, Jack Cohen, Richard Curtis, Diane Duane, Richard Fontana, Bill Glass,

Harvey and Johanna Glass, David Hartwell, Robert and Ginny Heinlein, Don Hetsko, Karen Malcor,

Susie Miller, Jerry Pournelle, Michael St. Laurent, Rich Sternbach, Tom Swale, Linda Wright, Chelsea

Quinn Yarbro, Howard Zimmerman.

Chtorr (ktor), n. 1. The planet Chtorr, presumed to exist within 30 light-years of Earth. 2. The star

system in which the planet occurs; possibly a red giant star, presently unidentified. 3. The ruling species of

the planet Chtorr; generic. 4. In formal usage, either one or many members of the ruling species of the

planet Chtorr; a Chtorr, the Chtorr. (See Chtor-ran) 5. The glottal chirruping cry of a Chtorr.

Chtor-ran (ktoi in), adj. 1. Of or relating to either the planet or the star system, Chtorr. 2. Native to

Chtorr. n. 1. Any creature native to Chtorr. 2. In common usage, a member of the primary species, the

(presumed) intelligent life form of Chtorr. (pl. Chtor-rans)

-The Random House Dictionary of the English Language Century 21 Edition, unabridged.

Mo-die (mo de), n., (colloq.) 1. Any person who has totally immersed himself in Mode Training

Seminars. 2. A member of the American Modal Movement. 3. Anyone who is dedicated to

quasi-religious, personal development seminars; generally used as an epithet. (pl. Mo-dies)

-The Random House Dictionary of the English Language Century 21 Edition, unabridged.

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A limerick of classic proportion

should have meter and rhyme and a portion

of humor quite lewd

and a frightfully crude

impossible sexual contortion.

?

? 1 ?

The Spider

"Design flaws travel in herds."

-Solomon Short

"Don't move!" I said it very softly.

"Huh-?" The kid came crashing through the bushes behind me.

"And don't talk!"

The spider was nearly twice as tall as a man. It looked confused. It stood in the center of a grassy

clearing, turning itself hesitantly this way and that. It was a dark oblate shape poised motionless on six

gangly legs. It hadn't seen us yet, but its big black eyes were swiveling back and forth in a restless,

searching motion. It was looking for the source of the sound; we'd surprised it. I wondered if we could

fade quietly back into the bushes. Alone, I could have done it

"What is it?" the kid blurted.

All four of the spider's eyes came jerking around to focus on us. "Shit." I touched the phonebox on my

belt and punched CONTROL. "This is JIMBO. I've got a spider. I think it's rogue."

The phone spoke instantly into my ear. "We copy. Stand by." The spider unslung a torch from beneath its

belly and brought the nozzle around to bear on us. Its red lights came on with an angry glare and it spoke

with a hard metal voice. "FREEZE WHERE YOU ARE!"

The phone spoke into my ear again. "What model?"

I replied as softly as I could manage. "I can't see the serial number. But it's one of the big ones. A

Robinson. Vigilante, I think. Industrial chassis. Looks like a riot-control model; it's armored and it's got

police fixtures. And . . . yes, military ordnance."

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" the spider ordered. "TAKE THREE STEPS

FORWARD!"

"We copy that too," said the phone emotionlessly.

"And it looks like it's been wounded. It's got scorch marks, scratches, and a couple bad dents. And it's

moving slower than it ` should." I wondered who-or what-had put those dents in it. The phone didn't

respond.

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS! TAKE THREE STEPS FORWARD!"

"Sir-?" the kid quavered. "Shouldn't we do as it says?"

I nodded. "Very . . . slowly." I took a step forward. Then another. And a third. I brought my hands up

slowly. I glanced sideways to see what the kid was doing. "Don't. Try. Anything."

"Uh-huh," the kid gulped. He looked like he was about to faint. I hoped he wouldn't. It might be fatal.

The spider was studying us with a full sensory scan. There was something wrong with its brain. It was

taking too long and it kept repeating its movements.

My phone reported, "Be very careful! You were right. It is a Vigilante-it's one of the hypered ones. It fell

out of the net three weeks ago, we don't know why. And it won't respond to recall. What's it doing

now?"

"Looking us over. But it's taking too long."

"It can't make up its mind if you're friend or foe. It probably can't read your dogtags."

"Shit. Have you got an override code?"

"We're not sure when it went down, so we don't know what its codes were at the time of the event. It

might still be updating-or it might have locked down when the channel broke."

"And the bad news is . . . ?" I prompted.

"You get to choose which code you want to try. You only get one guess."

There wasn't time to think. I said, "Give me the override cod operative at its last contact."

"Right."

"LOWER YOUR WEAPONS SLOWLY!" the spider bellowed. The phone spoke syllables into my

ear.

"Say again?"

"LOWER YOUR WEAPONS SLOWLY!"

I unhitched my rifle from my shoulder and slid it very slowly to the grass. I shrugged out of my backpack

too and stepped carefully away from it. . . .

The phone was repeating the override code a third time. "Did you get that?"

"Got it." If the spider was still talking, we had a chance.

I took a step forward. The huge machine rebalanced itself, refocusing and readying its weaponry

suspiciously. I spoke loudly and clearly. "Code: Zero. Niner. Charlie. Apple. Six. Emergency override.

Priority Alpha."

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

I repeated the code. Louder this time. "Emergency override. Priority Alpha."

The spider beeped. It clicked. Then it requested in a more courteous tone, "Password?"

My mouth was so dry it hurt. We'd gotten first-level recognition-but that didn't mean anything, not if we

had the wrong password. I cleared my throat.

"Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

"Password?" the spider repeated.

"Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

"What is the password?" the spider asked impatiently. "You have ten seconds."

Oh, God. What if its recognition functions were damaged? I stretched the middle finger of my right hand

across the back of my left toward the panel on my wrist. "Eternal vigilance-" I nudged the arming button.

"-is the price of liberty."

This time the spider hesitated. Thinking about it? One touch of my finger . . . and I might be able to make

that spider really angry. Damn. It was too heavily armored. The rockets in the backpack might stop a

worm; they couldn't handle this. The best I could do was wound the thing-and maybe buy enough time

for an escape.

The question was--could I outrun a four-meter Vigilante spider in hot pursuit?

I did not feel lucky.

Abruptly, the spider beeped and said, "Password accepted."

"Command:" I said. "Disable for inspection. Now."

The spider hesitated. "What is the password?" it asked. "You have ten seconds."

Huh?

"Sir-?" asked the kid. "Is it supposed to do that?"

I shook my head. "Shut up." I raised my voice again. "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

Again, a long hesitation. "Password accepted."

I thought hard for a moment. The spider would accept the password. Maybe. But it wouldn't accept any

other commands. To the phone, I said, "Are you getting all this?"

"We copy," said the voice in my ear. "Stand by. We're looking at options."

"Terrific. So am I." The spider had three flame-throwers, two rocket-launchers, and assorted other

frightfulnesses all slung neatly beneath its belly-several of which were targeted at us.

"What is the password?" the spider demanded.

Dammit! The bloody thing was stuck! It could recognize the password, but it couldn't pass that

recognition back-so it couldn't get out of the loop. How long did we have before its internal monitor

realized it was stuck? Once that happened, it would go on to the next option and no password would be

effective.

"Try the next password," whispered the phone.

My nose itched. I wanted desperately to scratch. I didn't dare. I shouted at the giant spider, "Hell hath no

fury like a pacifist." The spider swiveled sideways and stopped to consider. "Password accepted," it said.

"What is the password?"

The kid said, "Sir-?"

"Shut the fuck up." I was getting angry. On a hunch, I shouted, "Half of being smart is knowing what

you're dumb at!"

The spider thought about that one too. "Password accepted." Right. It was worse than I thought. The

spider recognized everything as a password. But when the accepted phrase didn't match up with the

phrase stored in its memory, it had to start all over. It would have been funny-if there weren't two lives at

stake.

"What is the password?"

An unlikely thought occurred to me. No, it was a very stupid idea. Still . . .

I called out to the spider, "There was a young man named O'Quinn-" and took a step backward.

"Password accepted. What is the password?" Maybe, just maybe . . .

"With inordinate interest in skin!" I took another step backward. So did the kid. Sideways and

backward. Away from the pack. The spider swiveled its cameras to follow us, but said only,` "Password

accepted."

"His singular goal--" Sideways and backward. "What is the password?"

"When he found a hole . ." Sideways-"Password accepted."

"Was to do what he could . . . to get in!" -and backward! It was working!

I glanced at the kid. His face was white. "Easy," I whispered. He gulped and nodded.

My phone asked, "What are you doing?"

I ignored it. How far back were the bushes? "There was a young fellow named Howard-" Dare I risk

two steps? No. The spider took longer to accept this one. Maybe it knew someone named Howard?

And why hadn't the monitor kicked in? "Who was thought to be magically powered-"

"Password accepted."

I glanced backward. Not too much farther. "His dick was so short-"

"Accepted."

"It looked like a wart-" One more step. I looked to the kid. "Get ready --- "

"What is the password?"

"But when it stood up, it just-" And touched the button on my wrist.

The backpack on the ground exploded. Two rockets smoked straight for the spider. It jerked around to

face them. I didn't wait to see if they hit-I rolled backward and into the bushes. The kid was already

ahead of me. We crashed through the trees

Behind us, something went off with a roar. A hammer of air slammed us forward. I heard the sound of a

torch-the spider was roasting the backpack! And then a siren! It was coming after us!

We tumbled into the Jeep and screeched backward up the hill. "Grab the heavy-launcher!" The kid was

already digging in the rear. I found a place to turn around and pointed the Jeep up the road.

"It's following us!" the kid screamed.

I glanced back. The spider was staggering unevenly across the slope with an uncertain, tentative gait.

That spider should have flamed us instantly. Whoever had damaged it had bought us a chance. Its

cameras were swiveling frantically back and forth, looking for a target, trying to lock on.

My phone was screaming in my ear; I pulled the headset off and tossed it aside. I put the Jeep on

automatic-a dangerous thing to do; it probably wasn't smart enough to track a dirt road- swung into the

back and grabbed the heavy-launcher from the kid. "Get out of the way."

I braced myself in the back of the Jeep and took careful aim at the spider. We bounced like a spring. I

wished for a steady-sight laser. I had to give the rocket enough time to identify its target and lock on-I

hoped to God the spider didn't find us first!

The green light came on. I squeezed the trigger.

The rocket escaped with a whooosh! It arced down the hill, zigzagging back and forth, only turning at the

very last moment toward the target. The spider exploded. It disappeared in three-one right after the

other-flowering bursts of orange flame, each one larger than the last, all curling into a mushrooming billow

of greasy black smoke. We could feel the heat and blast from here. Pebbles and dirt and hot oil

spattered down around us.

The Jeep was bumping suddenly across the grass. It had lost the road. I turned to leap forward, but the

kid was ahead of me. He was already sliding down into the seat, taking over the controls and bringing us

to a bouncing, spring-banging stop.

We sat there for a moment, just breathing hard and wondering at the surprise of still being alive. The day

was bright and cold. The air smelled suddenly sweet-even sweeter for the oily scent of the burning spider

behind us.

"Towered?" the kid asked. "The last word is towered?"

I looked over at him.

"Get out of the car," I said.

"Huh?"

"Get out of the car!"

"I don't understand-"

I swung myself over the side of the Jeep, walked around to the driver's side, grabbed the kid by the shirt,

and pulled him out of ' his seat as hard as I could. I jerked him rudely across the ground and slammed

him hard up against the broken wall of some ; forgotten building. I held him there-my knee braced

between his 9 legs, my wrist across his throat, and the barrel of my gun up his left nostril-and lowered my

voice. "Your stupidity nearly got us killed," I said. "I told you 'Don't move,' and you came crashing

through the bushes like a boar in heat. I told you not to talk and you had to ask why, what was

happening? That spider was half blind. We could have faded back into the bushes if you hadn't opened

your mouth."

"We got away okay, didn't we-?" he gasped. "Please, Lieutenant, you're hurting me!"

I cocked the pistol and put my face very close to his. His eyes were round with terror. Good. I wanted

him awake enough to hearl this. "Do you want to be my partner or my enemy?"

"Sir, Please-!"

I leaned on his throat a little harder. "Are you my partner or my enemy?"

"Part-ner," he croaked.

"Thank you." I eased my grip a little; he gasped for air. "So that means when I give an order, you're going

to follow it. Right?"

He nodded. "Yes. Sir."

"Immediately-and without question. Right?" He gulped and swallowed and managed to nod. "Do you

know why I'm telling you this?"

He shook his head. The sweat was beading on his brow. "Because I'm trying to save your life. I'm

assuming, of course, that you are survival-driven. If I'm mistaken in this assumption, please tell me now

so I can get out of your way. I promise I won't interfere. You want to die, that's fine by me. I like

paperwork. It's nice and safe. But I won't have you endangering my life too."

"Yes . . . sir." His words came hard.

"You remember this and we'll get along just fine, Private. The next time I give you an order you're going

to follow it as if your life depends on it-right? Because it does. Because if you don't follow my orders, I'll

take your fucking head off, do you hear me?"

"Yessir!"

"And I'm not going to hear any more fucking questions either-isn't that also right? You don't have the right

to ask them. You are lower than whale shit. The only answer you need is this one: `Because I'm your

superior officer and I say so.' Right?"

"Yessir!"

I let go of him and stepped back, reholstering my pistol. He hesitated, then started tucking his shirt back

into his pants. He glared over at me, but didn't speak. There was hatred in his eyes.

"Go ahead, try it," I said. "I know what you're thinking. Go ahead. I don't want there to be any doubt."

He dropped his eyes. He still hated me, but he wasn't going to swing.

He came up at me suddenly, swinging with a roundhouse punch that would have knocked the wind out of

me if I had still been there to receive it. I was already stepping back on one foot. I grabbed his arm and

pulled, tripping him as he came. He sprawled flat in the dirt and skidded.

I walked over to him, kicked him gently to roll him over on his back, and offered him a hand. He refused

it and sat up.

I grinned. "Want to try for two out of three?"

He shook his head.

I offered him my hand again. He refused it again and stood up by himself, brushing himself off. His

expression was still smoldering.

"What's your name, Private?"

"McCain," he grumbled. "Jon McCain."

"Well, listen, McCain-" I faced him and realized again how young he was. Sixteen? Fifteen? He really

was only a kid. He couldn't even grow a proper mustache-his upper lip just looked dirty-and he needed

a haircut. His scraggly brown hair hung down over his forehead, almost hiding his dark shaded eyes. He

looked like a hurt little boy.

"It's like this," I said. "Yes, I'm pissed as hell at you. I always get pissed at people who endanger my life.

But that's not why I put you up against that wall. That's just the fastest way I know to teach you the kind

of obedience that will ensure your survival. You have to trust me, because what you don't know could kill

us both. Do you know my record?"

"Yes sir, but-" he caught himself. "May I speak, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"Well . . ." His resentment faded into a lopsided, almost conspiratorial malice. "I just sort of figured you

had to be some kind of colossal fuck-up for them to give you this shit detail."

"Thanks for your . . . ah, candor."

"I looked up your record, sir. You've got three Purple Hearts, a Silver Star, a Good Conduct Medal,

and eighty million caseys in worm bounties. And, according to the military listings, you're one of the five

best field agents in California. You're a real chopperbopper-too good for this job. So, I figured you must

have really pissed someone off." His grin was infectious. "That's how I got here. "

"You're half-right," I admitted. "I made a bad guess last year. A lot of people died." I didn't like

remembering; I liked talking about it even less. "Anyway, they put me here-where if I made any more

mistakes, they'd be a lot more personal. Understand?"

"Sort of."

"Yeah, I don't like it either, but so what? This is the job. Let's get it done. I'll do the best I can. And so

will you. Understand?" His grin faded. "And whatever else I might feel about it is none of anybody's

goddamn business." I headed back toward the Jeep.

The phone was still yammering on the seat. I picked it up and put the headset to my ear. "JIMBO," I

acknowledged. "All clear. No casualties. And your Vigilante has been removed from service." I

answered a couple more questions, signed off, and looked over at the kid; he was standing rigidly, a

respectful distance away from the Jeep. "What are you waiting for?"

"Your orders, sir," he said crisply.

"Right." I jerked a thumb. "Get in the Jeep and drive." I unclipped the car's terminal and thumbed it to life.

"Yessir."

"McCain-"

"Sir?"

"Don't be a robot. Just be responsible."

"Yes, sir." The kid dropped in behind the wheel, snuck a sideways glance at me, then dropped his rigid

manner.

He headed us back toward the main road while I balanced the terminal on my lap and logged the

destruction of the Vigilante. The kid waited until I was finished, then said, "Sir? Can I ask you

something?"

"Go ahead."

"Well, it's about that spider. I thought those things were only supposed to kill worms."

I nodded. "That was the original programming. But then we started losing units. Renegades were

knocking them out and dismantling them for their weaponry, so the army reprogrammed them against

guerrillas too. All spiders now assume that any humans in a free-fire area-regardless of the clothes they

wear or the ID signals received from their dogtags-are hostiles, until proven otherwise." I added, "And

are treated accordingly."

"You mean-torched?"

"Only if you refuse to be captured." I shrugged. "Some of the reprogramming must have been a little

hasty. Even desperate." The kid didn't speak for a long time. He concentrated on his driving. The narrow

two-lane road was twisty.

After a while, he asked uncomfortably, "Are there a lot of those things around?"

"McDonnell-Douglas is fabricating three hundred and fifty units a week. Most of those are for

export-South America, Africa, Asia-there's a lot of wild country on this planet all of a sudden; but I'd

guess we've got at least a couple thousand of them patrolling the West Coast. It's the highway; 101 has

to be kept open. But not all of them are Vigilantes-and it's also very unlikely that the next one you run

into will be a rogue too."

"I'm not reassured."

I grinned. "You sound like me."

"Huh?"

"If you knew the statistics on the spiders' effectiveness, you'd be even less reassured."

"They don't work?"

I shrugged. "They do well enough." Then I added, "And they do have one real advantage. . .

. "

The kid glanced over at me curiously. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You don't have to write letters to their families when you lose one."

"Oh." He shut up and concentrated on his driving.

The real problem was that the worms were already learning to avoid the spiders; and there was even a

rumor that they had begun to set traps for the machines. Like elephant pits. I didn't know. There was a

lot of material I wasn't cleared to see any more.

"Hey," the kid asked suddenly. "Why'd you use limericks?"

"Huh? Oh-" I was startled out of my thoughts. "It was the only thing I could think of," I admitted. "When I

get bored, I write limericks."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

The kid pulled the Jeep onto the main road and headed us west toward US-101. "Tell me another."

"Mm, okay-I'm still working on this one: There was a young fellow named Chuck-"

The kid giggled in delight. Well, it was pretty obvious where it was going. "Go on," he said.

"Who expressed a great fondness for duck. Whether gravied or roasted, pressed, sauced, or toasted-" I

stopped.

"Yeah? Yeah? Go on."

I shook my head. "That's all there is to it, so far."

"That's all?"

I shrugged apologetically. "I couldn't think of a rhyme for the last line."

"You're kidding!"

"Yep."

?

There was a young lady named Susie,

Who everyone thought was a floozy.

She liked boy scout troops

and Shriners, in groups;

"What the hell?" She replied. "I'm not choosy."

?

David Gerrold - Chtorr 3 - A Rage for Revenge

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