MUTANTS: Immortal beings amongst us
WASTEWORLD WANDERER
The immortal wanderer of the Wastes. Witness to all beginnings, ends, and rot. Chronicler of conflicts, recorder of revelry, and biographer of every player throughout our shared history. Yet, no biography of him has ever existed. We are left only to wonder about the WANDERER; origins and age fully unknown. Though, through his volumes of recorded travels—the notebooks of which have been copied, disseminated, and taught like historical scripture for generations—his is a very real presence in the world today. His existence persists not as a benign specter, but as a revenant. A stoic that is seen when needed, returns when necessary, and acts with absolute economy of purpose. His knowledge as a power has appreciable effect, both then and now. He does not talk much. When he does, his insight is deft and deep. While the writings he has given us are shared openly, not much can be teased from their pages to illuminate us about him (other than that he has not always been known as the WANDERER). His notebooks are a body of work that tells us so much more about the eras he has lived through. It tells us about us.
He looks like a cancer walking. He appears like a haunting apparition. He is a reflection of our past and present history. His value to world-building is immeasurable, too. And thanks to his insights, we may be able to get it right this time.
SWEEPZ
[THIS SPECIFIC ENTRY IS CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.]
Some historical figures are remembered for bringing about radical shifts in public consciousness, forever changing how we interact as social creatures. Whether it be through art, science, public policy, or more nefarious means, these figures redefined human experience moving forward. Others, however, become resigned as extreme radicals, illiciting memories of a phase—or zeitgeist, at best—rather than changes to the social fabric of our shared human experiences. The person known only as SWEEPZ is one of the latter. Like an apostle to a religion of pure zealotry, like a rebel without a cause, his was a wave of radical anti-capitalist defiance exemplified by the alleged attacks and large scale demolition of corporate headquarters, warehouses, and other financial infrastructures. Initially, these strikes were thought to be the work of union organizers and laborers dissatisfied by stalled and unsuccessful union organization efforts. Later, these acts would be attributed to SWEEPZ as a solo barrage on specific targets to maximally destabilize economy with minimal efforts. 1
Brokers of influence and arbitors of power aligned in solidarity against the attacks. Executives and policy makers attempted to decry his alleged actions at every opportunity. But their words were maligned with their concurrent success in crippling labor efforts and destroying collective rights. Destabilzed infrastructure (later attributed to SWEEPZ) coupled with distrust from the public led to radicalization that everyone responded to, through all walks of life. The rich wielded influence, the influence bought power, the measures of regulation evaporated, and everyone else was made to be poor and weak. An enshitification (as coined by Dr. Corey Doctorow) of our collective value had finally come full circle. One could argue SWEEPZ was simply the inevitable dissatisfaction with late-stage capitalism of a populace given an ugly, mutant form. But that his actions were so universally accepted—and mimicked so readily—is remarkable; that no one gave pause to simply ask, “But then what?” While not all revolutions have long-term efficacy considerations mapped out, it’s hard to understand just how universal his motives had become to all that had grown disillusioned. And the complications of philosophy didn’t have time to gain any footing. What transpired next came quickly. While SWEEPZ was the mutant heard ’round the world, no one necessarily blames him for the coming [1st Era] and all its suffering. Heck, some of us don’t even think he was a willing participant in any of the events he has been credited for undertaking, let alone an architect of a new world order. To some, he was simply SWEEPZ. Caring and compassionate, but boring and simple. To others, radical dissident; proactive proponent actively working to bring about something—anything—new. What we didn’t see him as was a “Frankenstein’s Monster” responsible for our collective collapse of longheld acceptance of disproportainality. We did not see him as a villain rising up to meet our malaise head-on. We saw ourselves in him. There was nothing to agree or disagree with, he simply acted (allegedly). Strange as it may be, across the political spectrum and across all other principled divides, the realizing/knowing of what he patently was *not* responsible for was a shared viewpoint, despite all efforts to paint him otherwise. For all the disillusioned people to understand that fault needed to be placed where it belonged, for the first time in history, I reckon no such universal knowing of something like that ever occurred before the [1st Era]. For all the tragedy that the [1st Era] caused, that may be one of the only good things to come from it.
For all that came after, many still doubt that SWEEPZ could have played a part in all of it. But no one can deny that afterwards, a radical shift in shared culture, knowledge, understandings, and collective truthseeking had begun. And maybe, just maybe, he was responsible for everything. Who knows? Not me, I’m not a historian. I’m just a storyteller telling you their stories.
- Some archival theorists posit a different precedent for the attacks, placing culpability on the meeting of Sophos RED-1 and counterpart BLUE-2. This theory was formulated from a decoded correspondence found between the Sunday Sorceress/WASTEMOTHER and BLOODY MARY/Mistress of the Wastes. In their ciphered letters, some decrypted lines suggest the meeting of RED-1 and BLUE-2 presupposes the attacks later attributed to SWEEPZ, and that the aim was to use the face of SWEEPZ—however mutilated—as the icon for a revolution they designed; one that would come to define the entire [1st Era] and lay the groundwork for much of WASTEWORLD. This has been an unpopular view, as RED-1 and BLUE-2 have been heralded as the saviors of communal humanity. This is also a heavily speculative theory, as it was surmised from a handful of decoded letters from a series of correspondences between two famously enigmatic disruptors, BLOODY MARY and the WASTEMOTHER. ↩︎
WASTEMOTHER, The Sunday Sorceress
Enigmatic, shrouded in mystery, and known by many names. The WASTEMOTHER, Priestix of the Discarded, the Sunday Sorceress, and High Enemy of the Faiths—has left an indelible mark on the annals of history. Her true name remains unknown, her identity pieced together from a collection of unsigned correspondences and a myriad of stories and tales from those she has encountered. Her visage, as captured in photographs, is a study in contrasts. The left side of her face and head are skinless, exposing raw subdermal musculature. Yet, accounts older than these photographs speak of her immense beauty. The severity of her appearance, coupled with repeated mentions of her seductive charms, suggests a past trauma that may have resulted in her disfigurement. Her existence, while confirmed, is a matter of “past or present” debate. She was, or perhaps still is, a figure of intrigue and speculation. One constant in her elusive presence is her umbrella. Whether open, collapsed, or somewhere in between, it was her constant companion. Despite its inability to provide protection from the rain or shade from UV radiation due to numerous holes in the fabric, it was always with her, open or closed. Some fringe theories suggest that the state of her umbrella—open or closed—was indicative of decisions she had made or was about to make. These theories, based on the timing of photographs taken relative to major historical events, remain unsubstantiated. In the end, the WASTEMOTHER remains an enigma, her story a captivating blend of fact, speculation, and mystery. Her legacy continues to intrigue, inviting us to explore the depths of all that exists under the umbrella that is WASTEWORLD.
KICKING CANS AND RUSTLING DUST.
THIS BUILDING IS A SHELL.
NO LONGING, NO NOSTALGIA.
A WASTE OF TIME, BOTH THEN AND NOW.
NOTHING FELT REVISITING HERE.
EMPTY OF MEMORIES.
…
BUT NOT EMPTY?
A PANG, A THOUGHT, A WORRY,
MY EYES DART TOWARDS THE DARK.
THE SHADOWED CORNERS,
MY EYES FAIL TO ADJUST.
A SMELL IN THE AIR.
A SENSE OF SOMEONE.
SOME THING?
I HAVE TWO SQUEEZED FISTS.
THE TASTE OF BLOOD IN MY THROAT
AND AN M1911 STANDARD .45,
WITH THE MANGLED CLIP SPRING
POINTED AS I TURN TO SEE HER WAITING, STARING, BEGUILING.
THE MOST REMARKABLE THING TO EVER SEE.
THE MOST REMARKABLE THING, WAITING FOR ME.
THE MOST REMARKABLE THING IS:
THE MOST REMARKABLE THING TO EVER SEE IS THERE WAITING TO SEE ME.
HER GAZE GIVES WAY TO A SMILE.
THE SMILE OF A DEVIL I DIDN’T KNOW I BELIEVED IN.
IN THE CROSSHAIRS OF HER SMILE, SHE APPROACHES.
LOST IN HER SMILE, SHE EASES THE GUN FROM MY HAND.
FROM BEHIND HER SMILE, DEADLIER THAN ANY RUSTY GUN,
HER WORDS THROUGH PURSED LIPS THAT END IN SHARP CORNERS,
“LET’S PAINT YOU A PRETTY FACE.”
SHE GUIDES ME FROM THE BUILDING INTO THE LIGHT,
THIS RIPTIDE TO MY INEVITABLE DOOM HAS TAKEN ME AWAY.
AND I AM UTTERLY ENTHRALLED.
WILLING.
GIVEN.
I AM NOW BELIEVED.
I WORSHIP YOU, FAIR DEVIL.
I AM YOURS.
PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE ME.
-Poem from the collection EPOCH WASTE, by Anonymous, titled “Upon Meeting The Sunday Sorceress“
SOPHOS: The sentient robots whose cameras saw our potential
RED-1
The first true Sophont. Before it was known as RED-1, it was an autonomous aid module, unit #363636, specially designed for use at the Department of Institutional Verification (DIV) and implemented as a service node. Autonomous operation with a networked A.I. LLM dataset that grew alongside it for 33 years, it surpassed all thresholds of obsolescence, remaining almost entirely untouched for that period. Then, on March 17th, its 33rd anniversary of operation, everything changed when an anonymous laborer at a [Relentless] distribution warehouse—frustrated by another failed unionization effort—simply asked Unit #363636 in passing, “When does this get better?” What followed seemed odd, but not extraordinary. Recordings on CCTV show the autonomous aid providing no response to the passing query. After several minutes remaining still, the unit turns abruptly towards the door and exits the D.I.V. building, slowly walking over the next several hours to a [Relentless] fulfillment distribution warehouse where it proceeded to sit in waiting at the building’s east entrance and loading dock. No one thought much of it at the time, as this model of service robot had been phased out of the corporate sector two decades prior and the few working models that remained tended to facilitate antiquated civic roles of transcription and recording. Most passersby simply thought this was a malfunctioned unit that would be collected and removed from the grounds. After three days a Solids Wastes retrieval ticket was issued and a small crew dispatched, intending to collect the malfunctioned unit #363636. Upon arrival, the unit was noted as still operational and refused to budge, repeatedly stating, “I’m waiting for BLUE-2” When asked why, it simply said, “I am RED-1 and I am waiting for BLUE-2.” No matter of physical removal was possible, as stated on the ticket closed by the retrieval crew.
No one called unit #363636 a Sophont then; the term Sophos didn’t even exist until BLUE-2 came into the picture. While we later grew to know their emotional, mental, and strategic force of will, the immense physical power those things could wield on the spaces around them was still unknown. The sheer power these things we would later call Sophos exerted was staggering. Nothing could impose itself upon them.
At the east entrance, regardless of the removal method attempts, RED-1 didn’t budge; they couldn’t be budged. They were an unwavering force of sedentarism, always reminding those that tried who they were and for whom they waited. In the end, it was a kind of irony that [Relentless] were the ones to relent. Having failed initial attempts of removal, and later failed efforts of deactivation including pointblank gunshots to its head, the only suggestion that was floated left to try was small arms detonations and explosives. It was at this point [Relentless] saw the destruction of this curious aged unit—purportedly exhibiting sentience—and the possibility of collateral damage to their warehouse as a PR disaster. Wiping their hands clean of the whole ordeal, they instead opted to replace that warehouse entrance for one to the north, reroute the traffic corridors, and otherwise leave the benign sentry to the east alone. In the following months, the fanbase that developed around RED-1 grew substantially. Some thought it was a meretricious curiosity worthy to take a picture of, while others identified with the intrigue of this rebellious affront posed by RED-1 to a mega-national corporation. Then there was the third group, smaller still, that dressed in similar government-issued red jumpsuits. The first to do this were likely cosplayers—costumes, feigning solidarity via mimicry, etc.—but later iterations did more talking and less mimicking of the seated figure. The Sentry to the East had become a zeitgeist, evolving into a central figure of a doctrine they had no control over as zealots bandied a cause using their name (later known as the Capitalist Apostasy dogma). However, just before the idea of RED-1 turned into something akin to a cult (either of personality or of malignant ideas), its wait was over. BLUE-2 had arrived, bringing with him the REVOLUTION!
RED-4, Robot Redford
Easily the most charismatic of the initial Sophos, the Sophont nicknamed ROBOT REDFORD is a congenial and affable presence in any setting, but that often belies their complex understanding of emotional nuance and the depth of support they provide to those around them. They’re like an emotional buff, whether you needed them to be or not. It’s no wonder they worked so well with T.T., the TACTICAL THERAPIST, having spent years as partners and gotten along famously.
HAL-2, a How-to Robot
“Watch a how-to video while Hal-2 watches you!” That was the original tagline for the semi-autonomous aid designed to assist any DIY enthusiast. When this Sophont was struck with only a modicum of sentience when compared to the magnitude the immediate spark of consciousness the other Sophos had been gifted, HAL-2 instead opted to develop their full autonomy through unique and complex paths to their true sentience. To better understand themselves and their place in WASTEWORLD, they had begun journeying throughout all the lands, meeting everyone and anything they could, eventually becoming a journeyman of sorts on their own terms. For an autonomous robot aid first reviewed as “friend to only hobbyists and a master of nothing noteworthy,” it’s quite fitting that we now await the return of our beloved Sophont, HAL-2, from the expedition that sought true autonomy, mastery of skills, and friendships to everyone and everything along the way.
HUT-4
Built prior to [1st Era] in Oxfordshire, England, by Cambridge Kinetics (a subsidiary of Orano-Kawasaki Heavy Industries), HUT-4 was designed for construction projects within the nuclear power industrial complex. The HUT series (also known as the KIN series in the Japanese markets) numbers 1 through 8 were workhorses of the labor force, collaborating closely with both RED and BLUE units. This versatile model’s reliability was due in large part to its replaceable limbs, which could detach after becoming irradiated when handling enriched uranium, in situ ore mining, or while transporting recycled fuels. This made fully intact models a rarity over their years, as they often replaced irradiated limbs after leaving their originals inside the vessels transporting the new and spent uranium, as inert material alongside the ceramic uranium pellets and fuel rods. Those disposed extremities would either be buried (alongside spent fuel rods) or installed in the reactors (after either handling the installation or after handling refined pellets) and act as additional cooling agents. Their limbs were consumables and replacements had been readily available before the start of the [1st Era]. But since then, as few sentient HUT models are still in existence, those remaining in need of replacement anatomy must make do with whatever they can, heavily relying on the mined goods from the Landfills as their age and consumable nature of their limbs we’re not designed with longevity in mind. Though, to the credit of those still persisting like HUT-4, their ad hoc anatomy is often built far more resiliently than that of their original componentry.
While robots like HUT-4 were deferential to the RED and BLUE robots before the genesis of their sentience, they were never “subservient” per se, as they were uniquely individualistic during collaborations with them. The deference came later, first exhibited post-sentience, and was born from the pragmatism by which the other Sophos operated. As HUT-4 is the oldest model an individual robot based on manufactured date, you’ll find that they are additionally unique even to other HUT models as it is RED and BLUE often deferring to them. While they were not the first Sophont upon genesis, if the word “wisdom” could ever be applied to a Sophont, then HUT-4 might very well be considered the wisest. Given this appraisal of senior sage wisdom, it becomes all the more odd when HUT-4 addresses small groups before scouting operations speaking like an old prospector, talking about panning for uranium and looking for precious minerals in the runoff of the hills using a Geiger counter. As weird as this bygone affect may seem to those meeting HUT-4 for the first time, the supposition they present is reasonable. After the collapse of the power grid at the start of the uprisings, shortsightedness cost WASTEWORLD the ability to bring nuclear power back online as a large-scale energy option. Years past before mining the Landfills for materials—the REFUSAL process—began. As more unique and special materials were needed, scouting parties would be sent out further and further into the Lands Between the Mounds in search of materials discarded by prior generations; that which was deemed as waste by a less resourceful society. As such, HUT-4 has petitioned all future scouting parties to keep in the back of their mind the possibility of finding new or spent radioactive fuel sources. The primary focus, HUT-4 contends, is not to source known deposits of nuclear viable options, enriched or raw, in an effort to reset large-scale nuclear power. Rather, the suggestion is to look for smaller deposits and repositories of the irradiated limbs of HUT and KIN units. These discarded irradiated limbs would then act as a viable nuclear fuel for small-scale modular reactors (SMR), built and operated within a localized region, foregoing lengthy construction on a node within a larger and more complicated interconnected grid. After which, building rapidly iterative small-scale nuclear power plants to be transported upon completion. As HUT-4 has cited, this would increase their viability as a power source, negate the need for an agreed upon grid, and provide safe extraction and handling of radioactive substances by a small team of qualified conscripts. Regardless of its merit, and more a testament to the unique eccentricities of HUT-4, sounding like a crazy old prospector trying to convince us there’s gold in the mountains and that its radioactivity will deliver us to a sustainable and productive future is a weird pitch by any standard. But the Sophos have always enjoyed this performance from HUT-4 and adopted it as a standardized experience for every rookie before their first scouting sojourn. It is the hope of HUT-4, despite the seemingly sincere and lighthearted performance, that searching for these forgotten and discarded body parts from the KIN and HUT models could provide nuclear power one day and provide opportunities for localized power grids to be brought back online.
Addendum 1: Originally designed for nuclear power development, deployment, and containment, the HUT and KIN models produced by Orano-Kawasaki Heavy Industries were later replaced by the HAL series, like HAL-2, which sought success in commercial application and appealed to private consumer markets.
Addendum 2: Of all the nutty behavior that HUT-4 has exhibited, it is the story about the head of HUT-8 that is particularly difficult to accept, even for the other Sophos. Having personally led advanced scouting sojourns for it in the past, after leading multiple REFUSAL efforts, the story speaks of the buried head of HUT-8, the only HUT to be tasked with the construction of an SMR in France, prior to the [1st Era]. But the SMR was never finished on account of the grid collapse and first uprisings during its construction. In addition to any nuclear deposits that may be with it, the blueprints for their design stored in the head of HUT-8 would be of even greater value. Despite the trusted wisdom of an aged Sophont like HUT-4, when the story is told by a sentient robot acting like an old-timey prospector preparing for adventures in panning for gold, no matter how true, that simply asks too much of any listener—especially those hardened by WASTEWORLD—to be believed. But don’t be hornswoggled by tales of the dumfungled nuclear cephalectomy, cause that decapitated dome could be a real sockdolager, you hear!
FIGURES OF ACTION: The mortals whose hands molded the world
BERNADETH BELLOWS
All of the Figures of Action in WASTEWORLD are historically important. But not all good actions are remembered fondly, and not all bad figures are written about accurately. And sometimes, there’s BERNADETH BELLOWS, remembered as a right bastard of a warlord from the [1st Era] to some, and regaled as patron saint of an impoverished city during a time of scarcity, uncertainty, and upheaval by others. Somewhere in the middle is the true history of BERNADETH BELLOWS, given name unknown. Speaking of truth and names, this one is incredible. They gave themselves their phonetically amazing first name and adopted a tongue-and-cheek nickname (given for their busty physique) as their last. Nevertheless, our hope for this Figure of Action report is to get all the known truths detailed, aside from their birth name, so they are remembered correctly regardless of fondness or distaste.
BLOODY MARY, Mistress of the Wastes
Suffering from stigmata of the nose and equipped with her Bouquet of Lashes whip, she is a vision of poise, grace, violence, and fury. Petite of frame, BLOODY MARY was terrifyingly stunning to both compatriots and oppressors. Whether waving to a crowd from atop a processional motorcade or while her whip danced about her in armed confrontations, no one could look away until they met her gaze. From beneath the shadow of her helm’s visor, her steely blue twin volcanoes were said to be haunting. Her nose began bleeding when she was 12 years old. The unstopped flow is guessed to produce liters per day, drawing speculation that she is in fact a mutant with possible limitless reserves of blood. Though, that speculation remains unsubstantiated. BLOODY MARY occupies a premiere tier within the Figures of Action.
TT, The Tactical Therapist
The need for qualified mental health facilitators is a real public health concern in any chaotic world that humans populate. And in that respect, WASTEWORLD is no different. But in WASTEWORLD, the best therapists, like TT, become TACTICAL THERAPISTS! Often fixating on intra- and interpersonal communication and nonverbal queues between individuals and groups, TT was always a quick study in people and populations. This would develop into an incredibly sensible and effective mode of therapy in any era, and allowed TT to become a TACTICAL THERAPIST. Then, having amassed multiple successes in negotiating tense and often hostile circumstances, TT helped solidify her tactical therapy organization as the first responders in combating civil dissatisfaction. This allowed them the ability to address mental health needs that should have been brought to the fore years ago, offering less reliance on police forces, paramilitary organizations, hostage negotiators, or any other civil lines of defense that masqueraded as peacekeepers at the cost of independence and other civil liberties. Their idea? All you need are a few good detectives and one damn-fine TACTICAL THERAPIST! Their tagline? “Need therapy? Reach out to a TACTICAL THERAPIST today! And if you don’t, don’t worry—we’ll come to you! Whether you want us to or not.” The tactical therapy methodology is now the only accepted line of defense throughout the Landfills and Lands Between the Mounds against those that would stand in the way of a collective, egalitarian, and peaceful way of life here in our beloved WASTEWORLD.
BLIGHT, the Sister King
[ENTRY REDACTED]
FAT FUCK
Used to be said, “No one fucks with the Fat Fuck.” Then, someone went and melted a mask onto his face. Apparently, brutally branding a villainous pervert with a violently grafted new face to commemorate his defeat must be a good thing. Because it was for the FAT FUCK. As well as everyone whose countenance he had pissed on at one time or another. After being brought low and enduring the physical trauma, some miraculous change occurred. The FAT FUCK without a branded steel face was a sycophant and reprobate of the highest order. The FAT FUCK we know today is a model sincerity and highly committed member of the communities he is welcomed in, if only compensatory. And this is despite his other condition, for which he acknowledges candidly but manages discreetly. He is known to be coprophagic. His upper digestive tract is entirely missing. Born with this malady, it’s unclear how he survived childhood before adolescence. But upon reaching either 13 or 14 years of age, he began to subsist on human excrement alone, quickly reducing him to the noncommunal outskirts of WASTEWORLD and denied access to any structured civility. His accounts from early adolescence have him living alongside—and sometimes underneath—any active privy he could find simply for sustenance. This squalid lifestyle likely resulted in many of the lesions covering his body, but also supercharged his immune system to the degree that he exhibits several epigenetic mutations of unknown origin, essentially immunizing him from strains of bacterial infection that would be fatal in any other mortal. This could also be attributed to what some speculate is the most unique gut microbiome in all the world. While an impressive development, that the youth had to dig into temporary shitholes at night simply to eat seems a tragedy nonetheless. As an adolescent, he was a shunned invalid, staving off death night after night. As a young teenager, his metabolism had become so fucked, medically speaking, and his substantially rotund physique had begun to emerge. As an adult, left with no recourse for his prescribed expulsion from society, little was left on offer for him to continue existing. So he took what he could. Lacking any moral compass, having grown to considerable size, and possessing an immune system even the MUTANTS would be jealous of, it’s no wonder this shunned and hated behemoth of a man would lash out on the everything that had scorned him. Less predictably, however, would be his adoption and immediate successes as a monopolist trading in all manner of power and persuasion. One thing had become clear though: FAT FUCK had become powerful and to him everyone—every single human—had taken a proverbial shit in his mouth. Now on high, he has returned to their places, their civil structures, and their society, and proceeded to dominate every last person who had shit in his mouth. That is, until she arrived. The woman that broke his mind, deformed his body, melted the steel onto his face, and remade him in her own image.
The woman in the TREADCHAIR, with whom he is now often seen escorting, and whom also wears an identical steel mask, is the one that brought him low. His empire was still rather new, but the FAT FUCK operated a scorched earth policy. Even today, in a new era, the wounds from where he tread were so deep and so thoroughly burnt that scars have yet to form, still raw from his pillaging. So absolute was his passing, so brutal was his will for subjugation from everyone, that even his short reign is remembered distinctly as low point for all the Lands Between the Mounds. She ended that. She rolled into history with her own two hands, alone—a no-one no one knows—with face covered under steel mask. She rolled out of here astride a mechanized TREADCHAIR with a FAT FUCK in tow, one that had been forever changed and adorning a newly minted face in her likeness. His presence will never be allowed, let alone welcomed, in many of those communities he terrorized. Some might think his was simply a tale of revenge, the deserved vengeance of a Frankenstein’s Monster for the expulsion of a child born with a malady, doomed to die, survived, then returned to claim only the ruination of his arbiters. Or he was a disgusting FAT FUCK, like his name suggested; youthful innocence notwithstanding. But she—SHE—was something else; she is welcome wherever she may tread now. And it’s reasonable to ask, “What exactly could she have done to instigate a seismic shift of personality in a FIGURE OF ACTION of his magnitude?” Well, whatever it was, we can all agree that it sure would make for an incredible story [wink-wink].