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Message no. 1
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Sat, 19 Jun 1999 03:26:18 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>["Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, after all."

+++++Include full sensory link
An ancient, inhospitable swamp fades into focus. High sun filters through an
impossible tangle of Spanish moss, wisteria vines, and Awakened kudzu overhead,
the natural canopy providing minimal relief in the thick humidity. The scents
present in the heavy air are not so much smelled as tasted with every breath,
which also carries the unpleasant reminder that this is not her urban element.
No, it's filled with a cacophony of noises animal and otherwise, that
periodically cease for no apparent reason, other than to unnerve and drill this
point home, before resuming the myriad chorus as if nothing was the slightest
bit amiss.

"On the plus side," she mutters, half-complaining, "the mosquitos haven't
managed to pierce my skin--not yet. Got ripped by Monnet's stand-in AND got
lost twice on the way out here. Polymer sheathing's about the only thing
workin' in my favor today. But at least it's the right landing."

To her front lies the end of a winding dirt road--not much more than a jagged
slash through the dense vegetation really. At its edge, the murky bayou waters
wage their eon-old war with the land, slowly turning the ground beneath her feet
into a sticky brownish muck.

To her rear sits a rusting, all-terrain rental of indeterminate make, the
two-seater's flatdeck cradling a battered, flat-bottom, swamp buggy, which seems
to jut unwillingly over the forbidding gumbo below.

"Last trip here," Rita sighs as she begins unpacking, "I watched LaRue
return to
his world after an unpleasantly long stay in mine. One, I'll be really glad to
return to...and all the comforts with it."

Strong hands mechanically grasp the buggy, throwing off its nylon restraints,
one by one, before teflon-braided muscles F-L-E-X beneath ruthenium camouflaged
limbs...lifting...dragging it off the atv and into the waiting mud with a
muffled, "pLUUHhd!"

"Well, that's not going anywhere for a few."

+++++Chrono: 13:37:21.1564(l)
"Drek. This is taking waaay too long. Survival depends on finding him _before_
dark."

Returning to the cab, she briefly catches sight of herself in the passenger's
window: short, ash-black hair pulled back; eyes protected behind black,
non-reflect shades; bare, camo'd shoulders beneath a similarly camo'd tank-top.
From the passenger's seat she retrieves a combat harness and a freshly oiled
Walther MA 2100. The web gear is heavy, packed with oversized clips, designed
to fit in place of the rifle's missing magazine well. She'd have preferred her
standard Ares HVAR, but the old-style CAS sniper rifle was the best her fixer's
replacement could produce and still accommodate her time-table. Another moment
is spent stuffing ration bars into the cargo pockets of her BDU cut-offs before
returning to the boat.

"Right. Time to feed the lizards."

A quick hydraulic nudge from her name-giving 'jack and the fan-boat is free of
land, its old gasoline engine begrudgingly catching on the second try. With a
metallic whine, the huge pusher prop spins up and reaches speed. Soon, the atv
is left far behind.]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <13:41:07/06-18-60>
Message no. 2
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Sun, 20 Jun 1999 02:43:36 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>["This is not good."

+++++Chrono: 18:46:35.7494(l)

"Been out here five hours, and still no sign of LaRue's place. The shadows grow
long, as do my chances of finding him today."

+++++Include full sensory link
The southern Louisiana bayou assembles itself into focus. The previous overhead
canopy has given way to dense low-level vegetation, which separate the swamp
into natural waterways. In the distance, the sun seems to lounge just above the
horizon at treetop level, but its passing utterly fails provide the much needed
relief from the day's heat, with humidity still well over 90%. The impending
dusk has brought a notable increase in critter noises to the point of being
audible over the flatboat's fan.

"Shouldn't have taken more than thirty minutes to get there, instead I've spent
the whole time running back and forth between the landing and countless
waterways. None of which looked the least familiar. It's almost if the bayou
was rearranging itself with every pass."

The "viewer" deftly avoids the protruding stump of a long dead tree and nudges
the buggy into a narrow side channel. The scene shifts as she momentarily
glances down at the buggy's instrument cluster, then pans back up in time to
swing the craft left and avoid the brunt of a thick misty cloud, hanging midway
down the waterway.

"More cheery news: tanks're down to an eighth. Not good at all."

The camera's view abruptly blurs as Rita's gaze whips around at augmented speeds
and the bayou becomes deathly still.

+++++Tracking.

It briefly refocuses on something upchannel--an animal, very large and
approaching fast--then zooms-in on the buggy's deck, as the "viewer" topples
ineptly from the pilot's seat.

+++++Warning: right cyberarm biofeedback
+++++Warning: right cyberleg biofeedback
+++++Warning: reaction enhancement at 55%

"OhFragOhFragOhFRAG!"

The angle pans unfocused, then settles shakily on a patch of open water, while
Rita scrambles to retrieve the Walther and brace herself with limbs rapidly
numbing. As her left palm contacts the rifle's induction pad, a red crosshair
appears in its center.

Behind her, the engine fan automatically throttles back while the rudder locks
full left and the boat begins to move in a series of slow circles.

A too-jerky glance left, puts the wavering target spot on the huge creature,
who's already covered half the distance between them. She can see it clearly
now: dull gray head, half submerged beneath the water; squat, with a wide face;
row of bony ridges running down its back; and closing... 9m... 8m...

"That's it, skat... just a little closer..."

The sniper rifle *coughs* unsteadily--two times in rapid succession, followed by
another two--its impacts making a jagged line across the creature's flank. They
appear to have no effect.

"Wonderful, now it's pissed!"

+++++FnCheck: Jacks .... 100%

Upchannel, the approaching creature's head rises out of the water and belches a
stream of mist directly towards the camera.

+++++Fire Jacks: 6X

Hydraulic systems within her legs pulse at the command, propelling the "viewer"
up from the swamp buggy in a low awkward arc. Immediately, the camera angel
swings around under the influence of her clearly unbalanced body and catches
sight of the buggy below. What would have normally been an effortless leap, now
carries her clumsily through the leading edge of the mist cloud.

+++++Warning: left cyberleg biofeedback
+++++Warning: right cyberarm shutdown
+++++Warning: right cyberleg shutdown
+++++Warning: reaction enhancement at 09%

Presently, heavy branches blur by, in reverse, as the tree in which she'd
planned to land narrowly avoids delivering a series of fatal head impacts. At
the edge of the camera's view, creature and vehicle collide unceremoniously,
just before the swamp rises up to engulf Rita's paralyzed form.

+++++Engage: internal air system
+++++Warning: respiration at 40%

Murky waters swirl and close overhead.

+++++Tracking.....

+++++Warning: left cyberarm biofeedback
+++++Warning: left cyberleg shutdown

+++++Signal Lost]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <18:55:07/06-18-60>
Message no. 3
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Mon, 21 Jun 1999 00:15:51 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>[*Cough*a-cough*a-Cough*Cough*

"...Ouch."

+++++Chrono: 21:05:51.9542(l)

Note to self: waking up to the sound of your own hacking is not a fun
experience--even when it means that you're not dead.

+++++Include sensory link

Cybernetic eyes focus slowly on a gray woolen blanket, resting at the foot of an
old hardwood bed. The aspect suggests the "viewer" is propped on top of it and
under the aforementioned blanket. Closer inspection reveals that the bed is
situated in one corner of a single-room cabin.

The scene looses focus and for a time, she lies motionless, her eyes fixed on a
flickering gas lamp suspended from somewhere up by the ceiling--listening while
the light makes unfamiliar shadows dance to the muffled swamp sounds, which
drift in through split-rail walls.

Then the view re-focuses and, with an obvious effort, slowly shifts as she
deliberately turns to scan the rest of the room.

In the nearest corner, a squat cast-iron stove rests on thick clawed legs,
between uneven rough cut windows. Beside the stove, a long high set of shelves
dominates the remainder of the far wall. From the "viewer's" perspective, it
appears to contain a wide array of pots and all manner of storage jars, plus a
few worn books. In front of the shelf stands a crude wooden table, surrounded
by a mis-matched collection of straight backed chairs.

The shelf ends short of the far corner, leaving just enough room for a padded
red armchair and a sturdy wooden desk, covered with papers and small sparkly
trinkets. At the other end of the desk, the cabin's only door stands centered
in the far wall.

Next to the door, the remaining corner is completely filled with a set of worn
stairs which extend up over the bed.

Eventually, a thick cajun accent breaks the silence. "How you feelin', now?"

+++++System scan.... unavailable.

"Not sure," Rita responds in a voice that sounds rough and gravelly. "Bits
of
me keep passing out. Limbs won't respond either--nothing but 'feedback."

"Dat be skin-toxin," says the voice, as if it explained everything.

From the depths of the red armchair, the speaker leisurely stands and stretches,
revealing a well-worn "Univ. of New Orleans" shirt and a pair of dull, gray
cargo pants, beneath a faded green robe. He is a large, dark-skinned ork, with
a thick matte of long graying hair, slowly receding back from his forehead. His
face appears hardened and it's beginning to show signs of his metatype's
premature aging.

"Hun'ry Cussin," he continues, "he spray you, but good."

"Who?" She asks hoarsely.

The ork methodically crosses the floor to the table in the cabin's center,
before offering an explanation. "Zo'ologist, say he be, *salamandra
lamb'toni*."

His accent gives the Latin taxonomy a peculiar twist.

"...an' t'most bayou folk he jus' be, *Bad News*."

He turns to look directly into the camera.

"...but Gator," he states absolutely, "Gator call him, *Hun'ry Cussin*,
'cause
he a grouch, who be eatin' all'a time."

"Oh, I see," she retorts sarcastically, as if the entire universe suddenly made
perfect sense, adding, "you _do_ have the antidote, right?"

"Al'ready administer it. In a few hour, you limbs," he replies confidently,
"dhey be you own, an' p'ralysis, it be gone."

Then his voice trails off, "...should be gone b'now, but I t'ink you be
a'lergic."

She sighs, "just wonderful."

"Not t'worry, you be okay," he says with a grin, then turns his attention back
to the cluttered tabletop for a moment, finally selecting a dull green rock from
somewhere in the mess. As he appraises it before the cabin's sole source of
light, the rock begins to glow faintly.

"Ooh, dat a nice'n."

The rock quickly disappears into the folds of the faded green robe.

"'Sides," he continues, slowly returning to her side of the room, "Hun'ry
Cussin
only spit *mild* toxin."

Reaching the edge of the bed, he leans over her immobile form, arms folded
across the expanse of his chest.

"Now, what you doin' waay out in t'bayou, 'side feedin' lizards?"

The ork's brows seem to knit themselves together, as if anticipating the answer.

"Looking for you."

"May-be LaRue not wan' be foun'."

His tone suddenly changes from serious to suspicious. "What happen' you guide?"

"Didn't have one," she replies flatly.

"You lookin' fo' LaRue, all by youself," the ork raises both eyebrows in
surprise, then explodes with thunderous laughter, "Whaaa Haah Haaaa!"

It takes him nearly a minute to calm down, while Rita simply smirks. As his fit
of laughter subsides, LaRue walks back to the table and retrieves a mostly clean
cloth to dab at his eyes.

"Hoo-wie, I _never_ understan' you, Rita," he giggles. "Must be sometin'
pretty
importan', hunh? Riskin' you fool life in m'swamp an' all."

"Yeah, it is," she begins. "A friend in Seattl..."

"No," LaRue cuts her off, "don' talk, you'n tell me later."

Satisfied with his preparations, he turns towards the cabin's door. "Now rest a
whil'. I got t'find food fo' you."

As he pulls the door open and steps out, the room is instantly assaulted with
_full_ sounds and smells of the evening swamp beyond.

"No need, I'm _Really_ not hungry."

The hoarse words stop him amid stride. From over his shoulder, the ork
counters, "is not fo' you t'_eat_, Rita, is fo' Hun'ry Cussin. A deal be a
deal."

"What??!"

In answer, he pulls the door shut behind himself, "I promise him food, in
es'change fo' you."

+++++Link closed. ]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <21:13:02/06-18-60>
Message no. 4
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Sat, 19 Jun 1999 03:26:18 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>["Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, after all."

+++++Include full sensory link
An ancient, inhospitable swamp fades into focus. High sun filters through an
impossible tangle of Spanish moss, wisteria vines, and Awakened kudzu overhead,
the natural canopy providing minimal relief in the thick humidity. The scents
present in the heavy air are not so much smelled as tasted with every breath,
which also carries the unpleasant reminder that this is not her urban element.
No, it's filled with a cacophony of noises animal and otherwise, that
periodically cease for no apparent reason, other than to unnerve and drill this
point home, before resuming the myriad chorus as if nothing was the slightest
bit amiss.

"On the plus side," she mutters, half-complaining, "the mosquitos haven't
managed to pierce my skin--not yet. Got ripped by Monnet's stand-in AND got
lost twice on the way out here. Polymer sheathing's about the only thing
workin' in my favor today. But at least it's the right landing."

To her front lies the end of a winding dirt road--not much more than a jagged
slash through the dense vegetation really. At its edge, the murky bayou waters
wage their eon-old war with the land, slowly turning the ground beneath her feet
into a sticky brownish muck.

To her rear sits a rusting, all-terrain rental of indeterminate make, the
two-seater's flatdeck cradling a battered, flat-bottom, swamp buggy, which seems
to jut unwillingly over the forbidding gumbo below.

"Last trip here," Rita sighs as she begins unpacking, "I watched LaRue
return to
his world after an unpleasantly long stay in mine. One, I'll be really glad to
return to...and all the comforts with it."

Strong hands mechanically grasp the buggy, throwing off its nylon restraints,
one by one, before teflon-braided muscles F-L-E-X beneath ruthenium camouflaged
limbs...lifting...dragging it off the atv and into the waiting mud with a
muffled, "pLUUHhd!"

"Well, that's not going anywhere for a few."

+++++Chrono: 13:37:21.1564(l)
"Drek. This is taking waaay too long. Survival depends on finding him _before_
dark."

Returning to the cab, she briefly catches sight of herself in the passenger's
window: short, ash-black hair pulled back; eyes protected behind black,
non-reflect shades; bare, camo'd shoulders beneath a similarly camo'd tank-top.
From the passenger's seat she retrieves a combat harness and a freshly oiled
Walther MA 2100. The web gear is heavy, packed with oversized clips, designed
to fit in place of the rifle's missing magazine well. She'd have preferred her
standard Ares HVAR, but the old-style CAS sniper rifle was the best her fixer's
replacement could produce and still accommodate her time-table. Another moment
is spent stuffing ration bars into the cargo pockets of her BDU cut-offs before
returning to the boat.

"Right. Time to feed the lizards."

A quick hydraulic nudge from her name-giving 'jack and the fan-boat is free of
land, its old gasoline engine begrudgingly catching on the second try. With a
metallic whine, the huge pusher prop spins up and reaches speed. Soon, the atv
is left far behind.]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <13:41:07/06-18-60>
Message no. 5
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Sun, 20 Jun 1999 02:43:36 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>["This is not good."

+++++Chrono: 18:46:35.7494(l)

"Been out here five hours, and still no sign of LaRue's place. The shadows grow
long, as do my chances of finding him today."

+++++Include full sensory link
The southern Louisiana bayou assembles itself into focus. The previous overhead
canopy has given way to dense low-level vegetation, which separate the swamp
into natural waterways. In the distance, the sun seems to lounge just above the
horizon at treetop level, but its passing utterly fails provide the much needed
relief from the day's heat, with humidity still well over 90%. The impending
dusk has brought a notable increase in critter noises to the point of being
audible over the flatboat's fan.

"Shouldn't have taken more than thirty minutes to get there, instead I've spent
the whole time running back and forth between the landing and countless
waterways. None of which looked the least familiar. It's almost if the bayou
was rearranging itself with every pass."

The "viewer" deftly avoids the protruding stump of a long dead tree and nudges
the buggy into a narrow side channel. The scene shifts as she momentarily
glances down at the buggy's instrument cluster, then pans back up in time to
swing the craft left and avoid the brunt of a thick misty cloud, hanging midway
down the waterway.

"More cheery news: tanks're down to an eighth. Not good at all."

The camera's view abruptly blurs as Rita's gaze whips around at augmented speeds
and the bayou becomes deathly still.

+++++Tracking.

It briefly refocuses on something upchannel--an animal, very large and
approaching fast--then zooms-in on the buggy's deck, as the "viewer" topples
ineptly from the pilot's seat.

+++++Warning: right cyberarm biofeedback
+++++Warning: right cyberleg biofeedback
+++++Warning: reaction enhancement at 55%

"OhFragOhFragOhFRAG!"

The angle pans unfocused, then settles shakily on a patch of open water, while
Rita scrambles to retrieve the Walther and brace herself with limbs rapidly
numbing. As her left palm contacts the rifle's induction pad, a red crosshair
appears in its center.

Behind her, the engine fan automatically throttles back while the rudder locks
full left and the boat begins to move in a series of slow circles.

A too-jerky glance left, puts the wavering target spot on the huge creature,
who's already covered half the distance between them. She can see it clearly
now: dull gray head, half submerged beneath the water; squat, with a wide face;
row of bony ridges running down its back; and closing... 9m... 8m...

"That's it, skat... just a little closer..."

The sniper rifle *coughs* unsteadily--two times in rapid succession, followed by
another two--its impacts making a jagged line across the creature's flank. They
appear to have no effect.

"Wonderful, now it's pissed!"

+++++FnCheck: Jacks .... 100%

Upchannel, the approaching creature's head rises out of the water and belches a
stream of mist directly towards the camera.

+++++Fire Jacks: 6X

Hydraulic systems within her legs pulse at the command, propelling the "viewer"
up from the swamp buggy in a low awkward arc. Immediately, the camera angel
swings around under the influence of her clearly unbalanced body and catches
sight of the buggy below. What would have normally been an effortless leap, now
carries her clumsily through the leading edge of the mist cloud.

+++++Warning: left cyberleg biofeedback
+++++Warning: right cyberarm shutdown
+++++Warning: right cyberleg shutdown
+++++Warning: reaction enhancement at 09%

Presently, heavy branches blur by, in reverse, as the tree in which she'd
planned to land narrowly avoids delivering a series of fatal head impacts. At
the edge of the camera's view, creature and vehicle collide unceremoniously,
just before the swamp rises up to engulf Rita's paralyzed form.

+++++Engage: internal air system
+++++Warning: respiration at 40%

Murky waters swirl and close overhead.

+++++Tracking.....

+++++Warning: left cyberarm biofeedback
+++++Warning: left cyberleg shutdown

+++++Signal Lost]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <18:55:07/06-18-60>
Message no. 6
From: Logan Graves logan1@*****.intercom.net
Subject: Getting warmer
Date: Mon, 21 Jun 1999 00:15:51 -0400
+++++Internal: Rita's Journal
>>>>>[*Cough*a-cough*a-Cough*Cough*

"...Ouch."

+++++Chrono: 21:05:51.9542(l)

Note to self: waking up to the sound of your own hacking is not a fun
experience--even when it means that you're not dead.

+++++Include sensory link

Cybernetic eyes focus slowly on a gray woolen blanket, resting at the foot of an
old hardwood bed. The aspect suggests the "viewer" is propped on top of it and
under the aforementioned blanket. Closer inspection reveals that the bed is
situated in one corner of a single-room cabin.

The scene looses focus and for a time, she lies motionless, her eyes fixed on a
flickering gas lamp suspended from somewhere up by the ceiling--listening while
the light makes unfamiliar shadows dance to the muffled swamp sounds, which
drift in through split-rail walls.

Then the view re-focuses and, with an obvious effort, slowly shifts as she
deliberately turns to scan the rest of the room.

In the nearest corner, a squat cast-iron stove rests on thick clawed legs,
between uneven rough cut windows. Beside the stove, a long high set of shelves
dominates the remainder of the far wall. From the "viewer's" perspective, it
appears to contain a wide array of pots and all manner of storage jars, plus a
few worn books. In front of the shelf stands a crude wooden table, surrounded
by a mis-matched collection of straight backed chairs.

The shelf ends short of the far corner, leaving just enough room for a padded
red armchair and a sturdy wooden desk, covered with papers and small sparkly
trinkets. At the other end of the desk, the cabin's only door stands centered
in the far wall.

Next to the door, the remaining corner is completely filled with a set of worn
stairs which extend up over the bed.

Eventually, a thick cajun accent breaks the silence. "How you feelin', now?"

+++++System scan.... unavailable.

"Not sure," Rita responds in a voice that sounds rough and gravelly. "Bits
of
me keep passing out. Limbs won't respond either--nothing but 'feedback."

"Dat be skin-toxin," says the voice, as if it explained everything.

From the depths of the red armchair, the speaker leisurely stands and stretches,
revealing a well-worn "Univ. of New Orleans" shirt and a pair of dull, gray
cargo pants, beneath a faded green robe. He is a large, dark-skinned ork, with
a thick matte of long graying hair, slowly receding back from his forehead. His
face appears hardened and it's beginning to show signs of his metatype's
premature aging.

"Hun'ry Cussin," he continues, "he spray you, but good."

"Who?" She asks hoarsely.

The ork methodically crosses the floor to the table in the cabin's center,
before offering an explanation. "Zo'ologist, say he be, *salamandra
lamb'toni*."

His accent gives the Latin taxonomy a peculiar twist.

"...an' t'most bayou folk he jus' be, *Bad News*."

He turns to look directly into the camera.

"...but Gator," he states absolutely, "Gator call him, *Hun'ry Cussin*,
'cause
he a grouch, who be eatin' all'a time."

"Oh, I see," she retorts sarcastically, as if the entire universe suddenly made
perfect sense, adding, "you _do_ have the antidote, right?"

"Al'ready administer it. In a few hour, you limbs," he replies confidently,
"dhey be you own, an' p'ralysis, it be gone."

Then his voice trails off, "...should be gone b'now, but I t'ink you be
a'lergic."

She sighs, "just wonderful."

"Not t'worry, you be okay," he says with a grin, then turns his attention back
to the cluttered tabletop for a moment, finally selecting a dull green rock from
somewhere in the mess. As he appraises it before the cabin's sole source of
light, the rock begins to glow faintly.

"Ooh, dat a nice'n."

The rock quickly disappears into the folds of the faded green robe.

"'Sides," he continues, slowly returning to her side of the room, "Hun'ry
Cussin
only spit *mild* toxin."

Reaching the edge of the bed, he leans over her immobile form, arms folded
across the expanse of his chest.

"Now, what you doin' waay out in t'bayou, 'side feedin' lizards?"

The ork's brows seem to knit themselves together, as if anticipating the answer.

"Looking for you."

"May-be LaRue not wan' be foun'."

His tone suddenly changes from serious to suspicious. "What happen' you guide?"

"Didn't have one," she replies flatly.

"You lookin' fo' LaRue, all by youself," the ork raises both eyebrows in
surprise, then explodes with thunderous laughter, "Whaaa Haah Haaaa!"

It takes him nearly a minute to calm down, while Rita simply smirks. As his fit
of laughter subsides, LaRue walks back to the table and retrieves a mostly clean
cloth to dab at his eyes.

"Hoo-wie, I _never_ understan' you, Rita," he giggles. "Must be sometin'
pretty
importan', hunh? Riskin' you fool life in m'swamp an' all."

"Yeah, it is," she begins. "A friend in Seattl..."

"No," LaRue cuts her off, "don' talk, you'n tell me later."

Satisfied with his preparations, he turns towards the cabin's door. "Now rest a
whil'. I got t'find food fo' you."

As he pulls the door open and steps out, the room is instantly assaulted with
_full_ sounds and smells of the evening swamp beyond.

"No need, I'm _Really_ not hungry."

The hoarse words stop him amid stride. From over his shoulder, the ork
counters, "is not fo' you t'_eat_, Rita, is fo' Hun'ry Cussin. A deal be a
deal."

"What??!"

In answer, he pulls the door shut behind himself, "I promise him food, in
es'change fo' you."

+++++Link closed. ]<<<<<
-- Ricochet Rita <21:13:02/06-18-60>

Further Reading

If you enjoyed reading about Getting warmer, you may also be interested in:

Disclaimer

These messages were posted a long time ago on a mailing list far, far away. The copyright to their contents probably lies with the original authors of the individual messages, but since they were published in an electronic forum that anyone could subscribe to, and the logs were available to subscribers and most likely non-subscribers as well, it's felt that re-publishing them here is a kind of public service.

Thwap!