I'd spent the time alternately moping, drinking, and plotting terrible, irrational vengeance on Debra for killing me, destroying my relationship, taking away my beloved (in hindsight, anyway) Hall of Presidents and threatening the Mansion. Even in my addled state, I knew that this was pretty unproductive, and I kept promising that I would cut it out, take a shower and some sober-ups, and get to work at the Mansion. I was working up the energy to do just that when Dan came in. "Jesus," he said, shocked. I guess I was a bit of a mess, sprawled on the sofa in my underwear, all gamy and baggy and bloodshot. "Hey, Dan. How's it goin'?" He gave me one of his patented wry looks and I felt the same weird reversal of roles that we'd undergone at the U of T, when he had become the native, and I had become the interloper. He was the together one with the wry looks and I was the pathetic seeker who'd burned all his reputation capital. Out of habit, I checked my Whuffie, and a moment later I stopped being startled by its low score and was instead shocked by the fact that I could check it at all. I was back online! "Now, what do you know about that?" I said, staring at my dismal Whuffie. "What?" he said. I called his cochlea. "My systems are back online," I subvocalized. He started. "You were offline?" I jumped up from the couch and did a little happy underwear dance. "I _was_, but I'm not _now_." I felt better than I had in days, ready to beat the world -- or at least Debra. "Let me take a shower, then let's get to the Imagineering labs. I've got a pretty kickass idea." # The idea, as I explained it in the runabout, was a preemptive rehab of the Mansion. Sabotaging the Hall had been a nasty, stupid idea, and I'd gotten what I deserved for it. The whole point of the Bitchun Society was to be more reputable than the next ad-hoc, to succeed on merit, not trickery, despite assassinations and the like. So a rehab it would be. "Back in the early days of the Disneyland Mansion, in California," I explained, "Walt had a guy in a suit of armor just past the first Doom Buggy curve, he'd leap out and scare the hell out of the guests as they went by. It didn't last long, of course. The poor bastard kept getting punched out by startled guests, and besides, the armor wasn't too comfortable for long shifts." Dan chuckled appreciatively. The Bitchun Society had all but done away with any sort of dull, repetitious labor, and what remained -- tending bar, mopping toilets -- commanded Whuffie aplenty and a life of leisure in your off-hours. "But that guy in the suit of armor, he could _improvise_. You'd get a slightly different show every time. It's like the castmembers who spiel on the Jungleboat Cruise. They've each got their own patter, their own jokes, and even though the animatronics aren't so hot, it makes the show worth seeing." "You're going to fill the Mansion with castmembers in armor?" Dan asked, shaking his head.