Bread and Circuses

[CatKnight]

June 19, 2021
Hartford, Connecticut


Nineteen thousand souls, well over capacity, filled the XL Center on a cool summer evening in mid-June while another six or seven paid good money to watch from the now defunct Hartford Civic Center or any of a half dozen convention centers in this, the alleged 'rising star' of New England.

Nineteen thousand, yelling and screaming for blood before even the first pitch. They were a disparate lot, from the junior insurance executives with cyberchips permanently implanted in their skulls to the street assassins who put their faith in steel and iron. Not many children, for only the Crown Prince of Fools would bring children to a major city in the middle of the night anymore, and not even the impressive kill rate of the vaunted Colt Security Company could assure others of their safety.

It's been a rough ten years, chummer.

As I stepped onto the concrete walkway linking the locker room to the arena, the cheers grew deafening. Two armed guards led the way with laser guided rifles sweeping the crew. I followed, dressed in a suit and tie with my own pistol heavy in my hand through the pocket. After that came my team - twenty five souls (or so they claim), led by team captain Nat Tailyour. Tailyour was one of our newest recruits, joining the company and team just a few weeks before. After them trailed my assistant and our team doctor, Rum Benson. We figured Benson would see a lot of action this year - something to do with being beaten by a 3 kilogram rubber and iron ball with nothing but padding and a helmet for protection.

The Hornets looked like football players from maybe ten years ago. Their 'armor' was a little lighter than their ancestors, a little sleeker in style, but it fulfilled the same purpose. Hartford's uniform was hunter green with silver trimming, similar to the grip of the 12.5 mm automatic pistol our team is named after. As Colts' advertising department puts it: "If you don't own a Hornet, you're already gone."

The field, grey with white lines, gave slightly under my feet. It had the consistency of astroturf - you didn't want to fall on it, but it did absorb just enough of the ball's momentum so it wouldn't bounce and roll to the outfield wall every single time. Bulletproof glass seperated us from our ravenous fans, giving the XL Center the appearance of a hockey rink.

I'm told they still play hockey in Canada. I'm also told the pucks are on timers and sometimes explode. Who said NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman didn't have any good ideas?

We took a few minutes to wave to the crowd from midfield, and our fans responded with everything from cheers and calls through curses and thrown objects. I'd worked hard to get here, to be the general and field manager for a team in pretty much the only sport worth a damn anymore. With each flash of a recorder or camera, whether manual or cybered, I knew I was going down in history. Everything from the expression on my face to the cut of my suit, from the way I waved to the little amber ring on my left pinky, would be recorded and replayed as long as Deathball survived.

After we sat down on our bench, the crowd erupted as the Gary Harrows appeared. Hailing from Indiana, perhaps the westernmost extent of civilization until one reached the Pacific Coast, the Harrows wore white with black lettering. Their skipper, a man named Miller, stared at me as his team took center stage. He very slowly cocked one hand like a pistol, pointed at me, then pulled the trigger.

I stood and patted my coat. Miller smiled.

Music, louder and more intrusive than the crowd could ever be, took over. Not the National Anthem, chum. Even if you're one of the few who still think we're part of a nation, I haven't heard the Star Spangled anything in forever. No, this was a heavy metal technobeat called "Highway to Hell" - no relation to the AC/DC classic. I thought it a strange choice for a team theme song, but I learned very quickly not to cross the boss. He doesn't interfere very often at all, but when he tells me to jump I already know how high, if you get my meaning.

The Harrows sat down, the field judge turned on his field sensors and retired to his fortified booth, and the music faded. The stadium darkened except for a series of strobe lights that passed more or less randomly over the crowd and field in yellows and whites.

It took me over a year to get here, to build a team almost from scratch, equip the field, satisfy the rest of the league that Hartford could support a Deathball team, and so on and so forth. My benefactors richly rewarded my work: $100,000 per year isn't exactly chump change. Cars, food, women, entertainment, favors, all were mine to be had for being a Colts' man and the manager of the Hornets.

And all it cost me was my soul.

[CatKnight]

This league is based very heavily on the National Leadball League (http://www.sportsmogul.com/vbulletin/showthread.php?t=198998) mod created by Jellio. The mod consists of a handful of games per year under very high scoring, not to mention adverse conditions. I highly recommend it as a change in pace.

I further modified the game to suit my own needs, including moving some teams and changing the schedule format. I'll go into details (as well as release my schedule and .mog) shortly. My intent was to take Jellio's work, add another layer of dark wash, and yet keep it simple enough for me to personally monitor and administrate.

I'm not abandoning my New Orleans dynasty. This is meant to be a change in pace, and a chance to write in a slightly different genre than I have before.

Welcome to the future, chummers. Good luck. You're going to need it.

[Jellio]

Great start! I'll be reading(surprise, surprise)

I was actually thinking about naming the sport Deathball myself, as well as Doomball. Originally I wanted to call the sport Extreme Baseball, and the league was supposed to be the XBL, but then I found out that such a sport already exists.....


I further modified the game to suit my own needs, including moving some teams and changing the schedule format.

Where did you move teams to? The reason I'm asking is because I had to edit the cities that had teams to make the finances work, so you may want to do the following edits to the new cities you moved teams to so the new teams don't go into the red straight away:

New City Population = (((Original City Population-0,5)/10)+0,5)*6
New Area Population = (((Original Area Population-1,5)/10)+1,5)*6

[CatKnight]

Jellio: Thanks for the formulae! That helps alot!
*******

October 24, 2020


"Mister Dulvin will see you now," said the secretary at the Colt Security (ne' Firearms). If she thought, like I did, that seven p.m. was a strange time for a business meeting she gave no sign. Indeed, she showed none of the signs of a woman who was staying past her assigned shift and anxious to go home. Pale, with brown hair just off her neck, she flicked her auburn gaze in my direction as I stood.

It had taken me eight months just to get to this, my final interview to be Hartford's first Deathball manager. In that time I'd talked to two executives, filled out no one knows how many applications, release forms for background information, release from liability in the event of tragedy, and taken one aptitude and two personality tests. It seemed a little extreme, but as the second man I spoke with said: "Three hundred people applied for this one position. They had a year to make a decision. Further, he said the introduction of this sport to Hartford would help both Colts Security and the city of Hartford as a whole. They had the resources, time, and duty to pick the right guy.

Denny Dulvin's office was dark except for lights along the walls that did more to illuminate the light brown faux wood than the room itself. Quiet classical music - Mozart, Beethoven, Hayden perhaps - played from a stereo on one of the shelves enveloped in shadow. Other than that the room was silent, dominated by an oversized desk with a single chair in front of it. Dulvin (I assumed) sat opposite, with his back to me facing a panoramic view of the southeastern part of the city. He didn't greet me as I walked in, didn't even turn to acknowledge my presence.

I cleared my throat. "Mr. Dulvin?"

He held up one hand to silence me as Mozart/Beethoven/Hayden/whoever's piano melody finished with a dramatic flourish. The song faded into nothingness.

"You are Mr. Newgent," he said. Dulvin still hadn't turned to acknowledge me.

"Yes."

Slowly he lowered his restraining hand. "Like the singer."

"No relation, sir." Like I hadn't heard that all my life. This had to be the weirdest interview on record. Normally I'd already be describing my background and what I could bring to the team.

"Mr. Newgent," Dulvin said quietly, "you have shown us you have the aptitude to be our field and general manager. We believe you have the potential to be a good...fit...for our organization. I know your background. What I want to hear is why. What motivates Mark Newgent?"

Not talking to the back of a chair. "I....believe it's a challenge." Remembering my conversation with the last executive, I added, "....and I think this will be good for Hartford. I want to be in on the ground floor."

"Hartford," he mused. "Yes. So you are an altruist."

Something told me he didn't like altruists. "I don't mind helping our city, Mr. Dulvin. I do enjoy challenges though, and I...well, it's a good opportunity for me."

"It is," Dulvin agreed quietly. "Excellent salary. Perks. I assume others have gone over the details with you. There is a white envelope on my desk. Open it."

The envelope was the kind you used to send sensitive papers in. Slightly larger than a sheet of paper, it was prestamped "Do Not Bend." I tore the seal, and out came two pictures - a woman about my age (late 20s), and an older man in his forties or fifties. Another piece of paper identified who's pictures I was looking at as well as where they lived.

"Those are your rivals, Mr. Newgent," Dulvin rumbled. "Each make promising cases for their hiring for this post. Each would probably be competent. However, I want more. I want to know you want this job and will do anything to get it. That kind of....hunger....that kind of desire is what I need of a person I will be asking to motivate our players through a very difficult schedule."

I put the pictures back in the envelope.

"I will give the job to the last person standing."

[gosensgo101]

When I clicked on the thread to read the latest post and saw it was an executive meeting I was thinking "Just get to the murders already." It looks like you are. :D

[PotatoOfCouch13]

I'm told they still play hockey in Canada. I'm also told the pucks are on timers and sometimes explode. Who said NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman didn't have any good ideas?

Classic! :D

As usual, you've got me hooked Cat. I can kinda see this as a Rollerball-esque world, where corporations have their own teams to run, and the fans are showing up for the violence! Keep up the good work!

[CatKnight]

gosensgo101: One murder coming up. :)

PotatoofCouch: A Rollerball-esque cyberpunk type world is what I'm imagining and slowly building. Bladerunner, Logan's Run, and the Escape from... series also fits what I'm imagining.
*******

October 25, 2020

My first target was easy enough: A man in his early fifties named Cashman. That's probably a pseudonym - apparently he worked for one of the former baseball teams and won championships primarily through bribing or otherwise contracting with the most expensive players. As Hartford won't be the biggest market in this new Deathball league, and for that matter the owners haven't decided how they're handling player contracts yet, I'm not sure how Cashman's ability to spend vast sums of his bosses' money qualifies him for the job.

At any rate, Cashman sought me out. I woke the next morning to a message on my terminal: He wanted to make me a rich man, and all I had to do was stand aside.

Tempting. Who couldn't use $250,000? That's food and shelter for several years if you're careful. Plenty of time to think of something else to do with my life.

Yeah, right. I loaded my pistol.

He suggested we meet in Farmington, a town west of Hartford that hadn't hosted a farm in ten or twenty years. Nowadays it's what city planners call a 'middle urban complex,' all stores, nicer apartments and some electronics factories. Colts Security officers patrolled the streets in machine gun mounted Hummers as opposed to the APCs of Hartford proper. The cyberware the punk kids wore on the streets were of higher quality than in the inner city, but they weren't as skilled in actually using it. Posergangs.

Cashman was clearly a man who enjoyed his food. A big man with a thin face, he'd picked one of the hotels that catered to guests of the nearby insurance companies. He wore a brown coat laced with fur over his suit, but my eyes were attracted to the gaudy rings he wore on each finger. His grip was firm, but moist and I resisted the urge to wipe my hand.

"Mister...Newgent. It's good to meet with you. We only have a few minutes I'm afraid, but before we begin shall we order drinks?"

"I brought my own." I pulled out a flask.

"Suspicion?" His eyebrow arched. "Well, I'm sure that's a useful trait these days." He talked to the waiter briefly and turned back. "My offer is straight forward enough." He slid a credit chip, much like an old flash drive, across the table to me. "$250,000. Encrypted of course. I will send the code after I learn you've withdrawn from consideration."

I fingered the chip. "Are you making a similar offer to Ms. Priestly?" I asked, referring to our third competitor.

"I am." Cashman accepted his drink from the waiter. "And being suspicious you want to know why I'm willing to spend so much. I did well before the Collapse, and I look to do so again. The Blood Angels wouldn't hire me, so...." He shrugged and drained his glass.

"The who?" I asked. I'd inserted his chip into my reader to verify the amount.

"Didn't you know?" That amused him. "New York's team. Well, what's left of New York of course. They chose an internal candidate however. That left me with Hartford." He nodded at his chip. "May I assume you're interested?"

I nodded slowly. "It's a lot of money. You have a deal, Mr. Cashman." I smiled and pocketed the chip.

"Excellent!" He relaxed and smiled.

I poured my flask into our glasses and held mine up rather formally, cupping the bowl rather than gripping the glass. "To our arrangement."

He waited for me to drink before following suit. He even watched me swallow. I guess I'm not the only suspicious one. He looked at the drink with renewed respect. "Fruity. What is it?"

"Flavoring. For the most part it's oleander, hellbore and foxglove." I pocketed the flask.

His eyes narrowed. "Herbal? Like a tea?"

"Yes." I folded my hands. "Individually they're toxic. Together far more so. Naturally they've been rendered harmless." I urped politely into my napkin for emphasis.

Cashman slowly put the drink down. "Naturally," he said distantly. Then he frowned and pat his belly.

"Unless mixed with alcohol."

He abruptly spasmed. Cashman leapt to his feet, gripping the table for support. Whatever he wanted to say didn't appear as his face contorted with pain. "You...!"

"Waiter!" I called.

He saw us from several tables anyway. "What's going on?" he asked tersely.

"What the hell did you serve him?" I demanded. "He's having a reaction!"

"Wine!" he protested. "Ohio Claret, 2014!"

"No," Cashman gasped. Then he vomited and his bowels released at the same moment. He collapsed into my arms.

"Get him to the bathroom!" I snarled at the stunned waiter, passing off my victim. I plucked Cashman's wallet and pulled out his Platinum MedCard. "I'll summon an ambulance." This I did, to cover my tracks if nothing else, then stepped outside to 'wait for them.'

[RobToxin]

Nice. A little reminder of The Princess Bride poison drinking scene.

Not sure if OYF will be pleased or not with Cashman's demise.

[OldYankFan]

Nice. A little reminder of The Princess Bride poison drinking scene.

Not sure if OYF will be pleased or not with Cashman's demise.

I have learned to accept that no one connected to the Yankees fares well in dynasties (unless I am writing them). But, I wouldn't be surprised if Jorge Posada and Jason Varatek appear vying for a coaching job in Hartford. ;)

[CatKnight]

RobToxin: It took me awhile to figure out how to get rid of Cashman. Yes, it does remind one of the Princess Bride sequence. ;)

OldYankFan: Varitek and Posada? Probably not. ;)
*******

October 28, 2020


If this were the year 2000 or so, I'd describe Amanda Priestly as having a model's body. Nowadays she's just ugly. Take it from me - looking like you haven't eaten in three days is not hot.

My last competitor for the GM position was a tall woman in her late twenties with blond hair pulled back sharply by a butterfly clip. She wasn't smiling in the picture and, as I said, looked hungry more than anything. She had pale blue eyes and what looked like a scar running from below her jaw to under her chin.

Media monolith Wal-News ran one story concerning the poisoning in Farmington. "Police have no leads," the commentator said, which was frankly surprising. The waiter should have been able to describe me, and failing that there were vidfeeds in the dining room. In retrospect taking Cashman out so publicly was stupid, and yet no one was banging down my door demanding answers.

This let me concentrate on my opponent. My surprisingly quiet opponent. When three days passed and she made no move, I decided to seek her out.

Avon, Connecticut is a fortified community bordering the Bishops Corner district of the Hartford megaplex. Sealed off when boostergangs started moving into the area, checkpoints and armed guards man the few breaches in the thirty foot tall concrete wall ringing the town. The policeman I spoke with opined that I had no business within city limits, but changed his mind when I handed over Cashman's credchip. Even the slim chance of decrypting $250,000 was worth waving me through.

Once you get past the fortifications, Avon is a beautiful town. Real trees dotted real lawns, while children played outside with little apparent fear of being kidnapped or murdered. Occasionally bodyguards in suits, easily detectable since they were the only ones who felt the need to arm themselves, frowned in my direction as I slowly drove up one street and down the next. Here the upper crust, the chief executives of a half dozen corporations and their followers, reigned and my poor 2009 Kia was badly out of place next to the armored aerodynes and skimmers favored here.

Finally I found Priestly's house - small by Avon standards, which is to say huge by mine, and parked along the side of the road. I stepped out, pocketed my keys and pistol, looked towards the building and saw a flash of light.

I dove behind my car, which shook slightly as a red laserbeam slammed into its hull. I cursed as the smell of burning metal assailed my nostrils. It wouldn't take long for her to make mincemeat of my car - and probably me - if I didn't move, so I leapt up and charged the house.

The beam of light swung in my direction, but lasers need to hit you for a good second or two before they have noticeable effect. I weaved back and forth, ignoring the prickly, burning sensation in my arms, chest and legs whenever the beam got too close. It came from a series of long windows along one side of the house where a woman, Priestly, watched my progress with little apparent interest.

About five feet from the window I leapt, crashing through glass and wood to land beside her. I can't say it hurt. Oh, it did at some level I'm sure...certainly I was bleeding like a pig, but adrenalin answers for quite a bit. She dropped her laser and something flashed into her hand, but I was already rolling to my feet. The Colt 1911 felt cool and reassuring as it slipped into my hand and I double-tapped her.

Only she wasn't there! Priestly materialized beside me and kicked my hand. The pistol flew away. She swung a long, curved knife in my direction and I blocked it with both wrists held together like a cross. Nonetheless I staggered under the surprise assault and her second strike left a searing red gash on my arm.

Desperate now I backed away, darting out of range of her bloody knife. We were in a sitting room. Stuffed chairs, a very nice mahogany table, fireplace, fire poker...poker! I seized the weapon and slashed at her knife hand. I missed, but still struck her weapon and it too spun away.

Now it was my turn to advance across the floor, thrusting with my poker like an ancient fencer. Priestly may have been too thin for her own good, but damn she could move. She twisted away from the first two lunges, so I switched to an overhand swing. This she caught, both fists wrapping around the steel shaft.

"Truce?" I asked, for I was running out of breath and it was clear this fight was going nowhere.

She replied by tightening her grip, ripping the poker out of my hands, then slamming the handle into my jaw. I felt at least two teeth break and tasted blood. Instinct took over. I snarled, stepped forward to make it harder for her to swing, and butt our heads together. I'm not sure who it hurt more, but it felt good.

Once more the tide turned, for within ten centimeters or so the only attacks that succeed are short jabs and thrusts, chops rather than roundhouse punches. Here my strength turned the tide, and after a vicious shot to the jaw made her head snap back I thought I'd won. She staggered. I pressed my attack, but in so doing overstepped my balance. Instantly she grabbed my elbow and shoulder then threw me to the ground.

My head hit with a resounding crack, and this time adrenalin didn't answer. I lost two or three crucial seconds as she retrieved the poker, raised it over her head, and thrust it towards my pelvis.

"ENOUGH!" thundered a masculine voice. Dulvin. I craned around, looking for him and wondering what he was doing at our private battle. Priestly relented, but only to the extent of missing my pelvis and slamming the poker into the marble floor between my legs. She glared. I glared back.

"Mr. Newgent," said Dulvin. "Do you swear to serve me, no matter what I may ask?"

What kind of question was that? Of course not. Then again, he had stopped Priestly's attack...how? Why? "Y...yes."

"Stand up."

I did so. Priestly snarled, discontent, but stalked off to put the poker back. I stooped to retrieve my pistol. When I straightened, Delvin was walking into the room....or at least a man with Delvin's build. I never saw his face at the first meeting, nor did I see it now for he'd taken to wearing a hooded cloak over dress shirt and slacks.

Amanda walked to him and....knelt.

"Ms. Priestly is my bodyguard," Delvin explained. "I needed to see how well you handle....adversity. Congratulations, Mr. Newgent. You have the job."

My heart thumped strangely. I didn't feel my bleeding arm, nor the half dozen bumps and bruises I'd picked up in the last few minutes. My face flushed and I felt light headed - so much so that it took me a moment to realize he was serious.

"Now, kneel before your master."

[Red Sox Fan 734]

Your dynatsys are amazing :D

[CatKnight]

RSF 734: Nice!
*******

November 24, 2020


I won't bore you with the details, but it's worth noting that Deathball began some time in the early twenty-first century at a prison in Florida. There a rather clever (and sadistic) warden named P.T. Warren sought ways to keep the numerous factions (Cubans, blacks, 'Rednecks,' a few bonafide gangs, stockbrokers) from open warfare while reminding them who was in charge.

Warren said inspiration came to him when an enraged inmate threw a 5 lb. weight at his opponent, shattering his knee. The 'teams' supporting each man in the ensuing riot were roughly even. Once they were under control again, he issued a simple challenge: Dodgeball. With a lead ball. Losers would earn a week's hard labor, winners could stay 'home' and loaf. Two hours and nine injuries later, he'd broken both factions forever.

Deathball mutated rapidly under Warren's principle of 'more pain (for them), more gain (for me)'. The ball grew larger, though it did pick up a rubber coating. There was still some notion of safety in 2002. A batted ball could move much faster and hurt much more than one thrown. Then, just to make it less obvious he enjoyed watching inmates writhing on the ground in pain, he imposed baseball like rules.

As the United States wobbled its way towards oblivion, the game jumped from overcrowded, underfunded prison to prison. It was the Barrens, however, where Deathball really came to life.

*******

"You are leaving the Hartford metroplex," my car's computer said quietly, warned by the fading signal from the city's beacon atop the Travelers Tower.

"I know," I muttered, though honestly neither computer nor car cared less where I drove. We were deep in the wilds of northwestern Connecticut, now mostly overgrown fields, a resurgent forest with sickly, mutated trees and sickly, mutated animals, and a handful of villages with enough firepower to withstand a determined assault from the numerous gangs that roamed the countryside.

The Barrens, therefore, weren't so barren except in the niceties of life: Electricity was a valuable resource out here, aerodyne vehicles unheard of. Few computers, no chips, precious little in the way of currency. Some people came here to escape the 'excitement' of city life, some were born here and had slipped through the cracks - without a SIN (Citizen ID Number) they would never gain entrance into Hartford or anywhere - and some in the Barrens were banished.

With prisons crowded to the breaking point, some brilliant soul came up with implanted chips near the back of the target's brain where it meets the spine. The chip is rather benign...unless you get within range of the beacon of a city you've been banished from. The frequency causes the chip to set off the pain centers of your brain making it excruciating to try and enter. The chip can't be removed safely. Get banished from enough cities, and the Barrens is all you have left.

Today's game was between two local teams: One called itself, unoriginally enough, the Red Sox while the other club called itself the Creeping Doom. They played in what was once a hockey rink and recreation center but now more closely resembled a crumbling ruin.

Part of my new job is looking for talent wherever I can find it. There is no formal draft (though there will certainly be tryouts next Spring), and of course no existing reserve squad, so I have to follow any lead I can find. One of these leads brought me to Logan Smith, the Dooms' 33 year old catcher.

Logan was of average height with a thin frame, and my first thought was the rumors were wrong. Even with the padding he wore over his chest, more like a thick quilted armor from days of yore, he couldn't possibly deflect three kilogram balls for long or with any consistency. I winced as the first 145 kph pitch slammed into his chest.

Smith grunted, caught it before it fell, and fired a rocket back that nearly decapitated his pitcher.

I didn't pay much attention to the others but remained focused on my stoic, serious target. Despite the abuse he had to be taking, Smith did little more than grunt. No passed balls or hesitation, a rocket for an arm. Smith hit several hard line drives. One struck the outfield wall below the home run marker for a double.

I left in the eighth inning (Red Sox leading 17-14) and waited in the parking lot - broken pavement, dominated by menagerie of motorcycles and rusted trucks, with a single spotlight over the exit that had the odd habit of dimming out than flaring back to life. I watched the two or three hundred fans stream out, laughing and calling to each other in the cold November evening. Only one fight, minimal blood. After awhile the players followed, some mixing with the remaining fans while others got in their vehicles and left.

Smith was one of the last to leave, wearing faux-denim jeans and a leather jacket. He paused under the light, lit a cigarette and began walking towards his car. He tensed when I stepped out of mine and a blade flashed in his hand. I suppose it wouldn't have been the first time someone wanted a piece of him.

"Mr. Smith, my name is Newgent. I work for the Hartford Hornets." I held my hands away from my body and open in what was hopefully a peaceful gesture.

He frowned, but put his knife away. "What do you want?"

"Your services." I stepped closer and studied his lined, hard face. Grey, unblinking eyes stared back at me. "You're aware that Colts is starting a Deathball team? I want you behind the plate."

"Impossible. I can't enter Hartford." Smith brushed past me and kept walking.

"I can fix that."

He turned.

"I know why you were banished. More importantly, I don't care."

"I didn't do it," he scowled.

I waved my hand at him and shook my head. I really didn't care. "Forty thousand a year when you make the team, guaranteed raises every year you keep making the club. It's an exclusive contract though, no moonlighting with other teams during the offseason."

Smith grimaced at the aging rec center. "No problem."

[SrMeowMeow]

Okay. But. What about the other dynasty?!

[CatKnight]

As I said, I'm not abandoning Requiem. I'm just trying to get this out of the early preseason in this one ;)

[MadThespian]

I love dystopian stories.

And details, details, details. I just started a new present day Shadowrun/Buffy/Cthulhupunk RPG campaign for my friends and I may want to "borrow" some of your ideas.