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HEROICS INC.

Part Seventeen

        "Yuk!" had been Grendellal's first impression as she woke up 
and her opinion had not changed since then. It was all too neat 
and sanitised to be real.   She had been walking for hours across 
a flat grassy plain. The grass was lush but short, as if freshly 
mowed. The few trees looked pruned, all cut to the same size, 
carefully grouped together.  There was not even a bump or a stone 
in the ground.
        "This isn't nature; it's set design," Grendella thought to 
herself, as she scratched the "Slime Girls" tattoo on her arm, 
belching and farting softly.  It was just no place for a fun-loving 
Dwarfen, hot-to-trot and loaded for bear. "This place is Bally's idea 
of a good time."
        The thought of the others kept her moving.  They at least would 
cheer the place up a bit.  Maybe she could share the few beers she 
had thoughtfully stashed in her shoulder-bag, start a party and get 
the Prince kid to lighten up a bit. After a while, she saw the 
settlement, it was not calculated to thrill.
        "Definitely Dullsville."
        It was as if suburban planning had gone mad.  Not even COMS had 
been this rigorous in its uniformity, The town was made up of rows 
and rows of small bungalows, all laid out in a strict block pattern, 
there was none of the relieving individual flourishes, none of the 
tastelessness that had typified the suburbs in the old days on Earth.  
There was no stonecladding, extra garages, bay-windows or 
'Dunroamings' here.  Each bungalow was the exactly the same size, 
exactly the same colour, built in exactly the same way.  Even the 
front lawns, outside the dwellings, had exactly the same flowers 
planted in exactly the same places.  All over town, bungalows 
repeated themselves, precise replicas of each other.  The "square" 
had definitely inherited this "Earth."
        Grendella soon reached what she presumed was the outskirts of 
town; it was difficult to tell, as from a distance the centre of town 
looked exactly like the block she was standing in. She looked closely 
at the nearest bungalow, noticing that, even by her petite standards, 
it looked small.  Not that it mattered, she did not plan to stay 
here. She turned, about to leave.  Behind her a bungalow front door 
opened and two of the locals stepped out. Grendella spun back, 
shaking her head, somehow she had known that they would look like 
this.
        They were humanoid figures.  Just over two-foot-tall, dressed 
exactly alike, in bright dungarees, and long-sleeved stripy jerseys, 
they looked curiously doll-like.  From the slight variations in 
physique Grendella presumed that one was male and one was female.  It 
was hard to be sure; their hair was cut the same, even their faces 
were totally alike: with little button noses, small tight thin-lipped 
mouths, and narrowed suspicious eyes.  Their skin was multi-coloured, 
covering their rotund little bodies in a patchwork pattern, but even 
this complex pattern seemed to be repeated exactly on each of them.  
They approached her, keeping precisely in step with each over.
        'Hi, Shortstuffs. Which one is Tweedledum, and which is 
Tweedledee?'
        They said nothing.  Instead, as if synchronised, they both 
produced a small notebook and pencil and started to write rapidly, 
all the while looking extremely disapproving.  
        'So tell me Munchkins, what does a happening guy and girl such 
as yourselves do for entertainment 'round here?'
        'Obviously a knowledge-base non-possessor.' They both spoke 
together in dull, dead sounding voices.
        Grendella bristled: 'Are you saying I'm thick?'
        'Differently abled.'
        'That's good, coming from a couple of runts like you.'
        'This is fascinating,' the colourful beings agreed. 'The use of 
language to offend is obviously cerebrally challenged.'
        'Talk sense, you little creeps.'
        'Perhaps the contaminant is sobriety-deprived.'
        'I haven't touched a drop for hours!' Grendella was getting 
annoyed.
        'Who ARE you?'
        'We are the Ritons,' the curious figures answered politely.
        'That figures.  How do I get to somewhere sensible?'
        The Ritons shook their heads sadly.
        'Mentally disadvantaged.'
        'Listen half-pints.  I can't say that rapping with Tom Thumb's 
uptight cousins has been fun, because it hasn't.  But joke's over. 
It's time to get out of this toy-store town, just tell me who made 
you little wind-up dollies and I'll go there for some fun.'
        'I am afraid you cannot leave,' the first Riton said.
        'You are a contaminant, you see.' added Riton number two.
        'You must be stopped.'
        'Put on trial.'
        'TRIAL!' Grendella blurted incredulously. 'What for?'
        'For crimes against the state.'
        'Crimes against the language.'
        'Crimes against a fair and balanced world.' They waved their 
notebooks. 'We have the evidence you see. We are afraid that it will 
mean the terminal penalty.'
        'What's that?  Polite conversation with you two funsters.'
        'You must be stopped. Neutralised.'
        'Rendered non-viable.'
        Grendella had had enough of their surreal little delusion. She 
leaned forward, smiling dangerously.
        'You've got to catch me first.'
        The Ritons looked soberly at each other, they nodded and opened 
their mouths wide.  Overcome by gas, the Dwarfen fell over.
        'I should have known,' she managed to mumble dully as she 
passed out, 'Talking horse-manure all the time - bound to have bad 
breath.'
        The Ritons gazed at each other impassively, shaking their 
heads.
        'A chronic under-achiever, we must be careful to avoid 
inappropriate physical abuse.'
        Then they started to drag the Dwarfen away; carefully.








        "Please God.  Let me see something nice this time," Will 
thought to himself as he opened his eyes.
        The face that looked back was weathered and grinning, deeply 
tanned and lined by its owner's amusement at the cosmos.  The eyes 
were large, softly brown with a merry twinkle, and under the large 
gnomic nose, the wide lips contained a brimming gob, full of gleaming 
teeth.  Add to this the large hoop earring that adorned the thick 
left ear and the great tumbling cascades of shiny curly black hair 
and you had Will's vision of what a buccaneer should look like.
        His clothes too seemed suitably flamboyant.  The long flowing, 
gypsy-style white silk shirt, the large musketeer boots, the 
colourful poncho carelessly thrown on, the long black gloves, and 
that hat: a hat of brocade and feathers and finery, a hat that seemed 
to go on forever, of unlikely dimensions, somehow defying gravity and 
not flopping all over the place.  This being was something to see, 
and you could tell he knew it too, from the slightly posed 
carelessness with which he sat on the stool, the rugged jauntiness 
of the fist resting on the hip. He was certainly impressive, 
considering he was only eleven inches high.
        'Greetings, Will Prince,' the being said in a deep voice 
dripping with gregarious good-fellowship, 'Welcome to the quest.'
        Will said nothing, he could say nothing.  He was just too 
shocked.
        'Would you like something to eat?  Something to drink?'
        The being casually clicked his fingers, a substantial table
appeared, covered with fine linen, china, silverware and more
importantly, more mouth-watering delicacies than Will had ever seen.
It was all too much.  Will fainted, ears resounding with the 
creature's fruity laughter.









Ashton, Iowa : Early 21st Century, October.


"Cyanide Sal", the limpdicks had called her in Big-City 
Homicide, behind her back, of course.  In the department, Sally 
Munday had had a reputation for being so hard-boiled, she needed 
dynamite to crack a smile.  She did not suffer fools gladly, had not 
put up with the "boys" on the force's constant sexist jibes, had 
taken charge of her own destiny and set up as a private detective.
        The same kindergarten mentality adopted by her ex-colleagues 
still occasionally prompted some jerk to think that he was really 
clever, calling her a "private dick" in a sniggering, patronising, 
voice.  Sally, treated such cretins with the contempt, and the sharp 
right hook to the jaw, that they deserved.
        However, Sally was no stereotype from some old movie, no cool 
blonde with a smoking gun in her hand, hatred for all men and a 
frigidaire in her heart.  She did not even own a fedora, much to her 
customers' disappointment. Sally Munday, was a together, large boned 
early thirties red-head, with a no-nonsense attitude, casual taste in 
clothes, a ten-year-old son to support and a flair for her job. She 
did not need to make slickly impressive wise-cracks about being good 
at what she did; she just was.
        Right now, that job was finding Mrs Titwilleger, although 
having met Casper, she felt that Blossom was probably better off on 
her own. It had been surprisingly easy so far.  Some fellow bus 
passengers had seen her walk away.  It had just been a matter of 
following the route in her battered Sedan, asking questions.  People 
answered Sally; she was a rarity in an impatient time, for she asked 
questions like she really wanted to hear the answer, and then she 
listened.
        'Sure,' The spotty teenager said. 'I thought it was strange, 
she seemed so normal.'
        'And she climbed into a van with some old guys.'
        'Old! They were dinosaurs, like outta the movies my gran'daddy 
watches. Woodstock n' Monteray n' stuff.
        'Was there anything distinctive about the van?'
        The kid looked uncertain, confused.  'Distinctive, what's 
that?'
        'Anything special or noticeable.  Anything that stood out.'
        'Shi-i-i-t-t-t mam!  Distinctive ain't the word.  That thing 
was so old, it was a wonder it was still moving, AND the paintwork.  
You've never see the like!  Unicorns, stars and all types of weird 
stuff, all over the damn thing.  It looked horrible.'
        'Were there any words painted, with the pictures.'
        'Yeah but they were real strange, "PEACE" n' "LOVE" n' "END THE 
WAR NOW".  What damn war's that? I thought."
        'Anything else.'
        'Yeah, "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO", "LAY DON'T SLAY", and somethin' 
else.  Some kinda' name.  It stuck in my mind...'
        Sally nodded eagerly, spurring the kid on.
        'The Misbegotten Sons of Hernandez, or Houston or some damn 
thing.'
        'When it drove off, did you see which way it went?'
        'Well, it was far off when it turned, but I think.'
        'Yes?'
        'I think it turned off towards Ashton.'
        Sally rewarded the youth with a smile and some effusive words 
of appreciation.
        'No sweat M'am,' he said, 'Can I have the fifty bucks now?'









He was a killer, although he was not bothered by the fact.  It 
was just a job.  Even his collection of passports, each with a 
different alias, were reasonably upfront about it.  Occupation, they 
said: "Exterminator".  And it had to be said that he was lethally 
efficient.  Better than most poisons, a hundred per cent effective 
against tiresome pests.
        Now he had arrived in Ashton, just another place full of 
secrets, hidden lusts, hatreds and despairs.  None of it mattered to 
this rather nondescript looking man with the sober taste in suits. He 
had not arrived as a tourist, like the many others camped outside the 
Titwilleger home. All he wanted to do was get things over with, do 
the business and get back home and work on his golf handicap.  He was 
a man of few needs and most of those needs were focused now on 
rapidly finding Blossom Titwilleger and terminating her existence.









        'Ah, you're awake. Good.' 
        The swashbuckling figure had moved his stool to the dinner 
table.
        'Am I?' was all Will could mutter weakly, he had been 
unconscious so many times recently, he had no certain idea of which 
state he was in anymore.
        'I don't think I'd bother to talk to you if you wasn't.'
         Will did not even listen to the creature's answer.  He was 
distracted by the smell, the delicious, wonderful odour, of lots and 
lots, of food and drink.  He had been thoughtfully placed at the 
table, within easy reach of everything.  For a while he drank it all 
in, then he looked at the little man, the longing virtually dripping 
down his face. The flamboyant personage politely motioned.
        'Please, feel free.'

        That was all the encouragement Will needed.  Like a manic, 
raging beast descending upon his prey, Will attacked the contents of 
the table.  For a long time there was just the sound of happy 
swilling, munching, and the little man's encouraging mirth.  For 
Will, it was a wonderful experience, almost orgasmic in intensity. 
After all the years of difficult COMS GRUB machines, after all the 
privations of the past few days, it was a dream made flesh, and such 
flesh; sweet, tender and gorgeous. For a while after he had finished 
there was silence, a quiet formed from perfect contentment and rose-
tinted memory.  The meal had been marvellous.  Then Will called his 
pleasured senses to order.
        'Who are you?' he asked the creature in the unlikely hat.
        'The name's Gilhoolie,  I'm a fantastation.'
        'A fantas...A what?'
        'A guide.  Your guide to Spoggle.  You summoned me when you hit 
the MADID button.'
        'That's nice. You can start by telling me where my friends 
are.'
        'That would be telling.'
        'You just said you're a guide.'
        'I'm more generalised than that, I don't want to spoil the 
fun.' Gilhoolie chuckled.
        'Fun, what fun?'
        'The fun of you finding your friends.  The fun of you rescuing 
them.  The fun of proving that you're worthy to go after the MADID.'
        Will tried a little conceited name-dropping.
        'THE Queen Sharon, Queen of the Illuminated Way, no less, 
thought I was worthy.'
        The Fantastation looked distinctly underwhelmed.
        'We know.  But believe me, she isn't as important as she thinks 
she is. The opinions, or the powers, of your purple, or orange 
friends, don't matter here.'
        "That's telling me", Will thought. No wonder she said she 
couldn't help.
        'So, if you can't tell me where my friends are, what can you 
tell me?'
        'There is a very old natural law in effect in the universe.  
That for every piece of well thought out, logical action, there must 
be a equal piece of total jammy blind luck...'
        'That about sums up my life.'
        'When this place was created - don't ask me anything about the 
creators because I won't tell you - it was decided that the last 
thing anyone needed was luck mucking about with everyone's careful 
plans.  So, the creators did what they do best; creating.  They 
created the MADID and they created the quest for the MADID and they 
created me to oversee that quest. That way, all the blind-luck 
element of life's equation is used up in seeking the MADID and all 
the planned stuff can go on without disturbance.'
        'So, I'm here as some sort of lightning conductor for luck.'
        'You seem to be fairly lucky.  You're here, you've survived so 
far.'
        'So, what's next?'
        Gilhoolie smiled his most trustworthy smile.
        'The fun bit, you'll enjoy this....'
        'Wanna bet!' Will mumbled to himself resentfully.
        'Somewhere out there, on this BIG, BIG world, are your friends. 
All you have to do is find them, and rescue them.'
        'RESCUE?'
        'Yes. They're all in some danger.  A little precaution we take, 
just to make things interesting.'
        Will absolutely loathed every minute of being a hero.  It was 
nothing but grief, he decided.
        'That's nice. What if I do all this, if I rescue them.'
        'Well then, I take out my scorecard, tot up how you've done and 
see if you go onto the next bit.  That's the really hard part.'
        'You're treating it like it's all a game, scorecards and 
things.'
        'It is a sort of game really. Anything that's got so much luck 
involved is a game.  Life's a game if you look at it that way.'
        Will could feel the beneficial effects of the meal ebbing away 
in direct proportion to his growing realisation of the tasks ahead.
        'What if I fail?'
        'Cheer up Will, you won't.'
        'What if I do?'
        'I don't write the rules...'
        'Yes?'
        'It's nothing to do with me.'
        Will nodded, growing impatient. For a moment the Fantastation's 
eyes lost their sparkle, his mouth it's mirth.'
        'If you don't succeed...' Gilhoolie hesitated.
        'WHAT HAPPENS?'
        'You all die horribly,' came the subdued reply. 'The Estapoppi 
won't release you a second time.'
        Will suddenly felt very cold.  
        'What happens if I say - we quit, we don't want to go on, let 
us leave?'
        'You can't.  You're committed.  Give up and you give up 
everything.  It's death or glory now.'
        'You're a bundle of laughs, d'you know that.'
        'Sorry!' The Fantastation looked genuinely apologetic.
        It was all a bit much for Will.  In an instant, a man who had 
only been responsible for collecting a DOLE payment suddenly found 
that the lives of everyone he had involved in his adolescent heroic 
fantasies depended on him.  It was what Hollywood movie makers used 
to call "a moment of courage" and much to his continued amazement,  
Will rose to the occasion admirably.  After all, he told himself, 
"You have no choice."
        'Come on then, how do I start?'
        Gilhoolie brightened, bounding onto the dull ground.  He 
clicked his fingers and the wall with the button, along with the 
table and chairs, vanished.
        'What!  No doggy-bag?' Will protested pathetically.
        Another nonchalant click of those nimble-gloved fingers and a 
new row of signs appeared, stretching off into the distance, 
apparently for Infinity: TO GRENDELLA, they said.  
        'I'm supposed to walk, am I?'
        'No. We provide transport.'
        Another movement of those magical fingers and the 
transportation arrived.  Will looked at the gleaming new blue bicycle 
sceptically, taking in every detail, including the basket containing 
the small chaise-lounge at the front.
        'You travel in style, I see.'
        'I'm here to observe and to give advice.  I'm not supposed to 
do anything.'
        'Where's the engine?'
        The Fantastation had recovered its good spirits, but was 
starting to find this human tiresome.  It could tell that he was 
going to be a difficult one.
        'There's no engine. We want no pollution here. You PEDAL it.'
        'Will was horrified, it was bad enough being under sentence of 
death without having to play around with some dismal old contraption.
        'I CAN'T RIDE THAT THING!'
        'Then LEARN!'
        Will made his way to the bike with sullen ill-grace, pulling 
insulting faces and hissing bad-tempered retorts under his breath.  
As he climbed onto the bike, the human's features cleared; a thought 
had occurred.
        'This quest?'
        'Yes?'
        'Have other people tried it?'
        'We have had representative heroes from most races and 
cultures. I have adopted many shapes over the years.'
        'How did they get on?'
        'In what way?'
        'Well, did they get to this next level for instance?'
        'No, I must admit, they all died horribly.  But don't worry 
Will, it's like cycling; there's always a first time.'









Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, October.



For all his dark talk of taking action, it had taken a weary 
threat of divorce from the normally placid Primrose to motivate Cecil 
Bland.  Once more, the uptight Englishman had crossed the Atlantic, 
braving a journey that had become hated, keen to restore what he saw 
as: Traditional Moral Values. Cecil had always been careful with 
money, but for once his normal parsimonious  restrictions had been 
lifted.  There were more important things at stake than a few extra 
pounds high interest on his account.  This was to be another kind of 
book balancing.
        For someone with money to spend, purchasing an over-priced 
rifle had been fairly easy, although the strutting rednecks in the 
survivalist camp had not quite known how to deal with their puny 
foreign visitor, the steely glint in his eye, or his sense of 
purpose. It was all going to plan.  He had the gun, he had taken the 
lessons and knew how to shoot.  He had arrived in Ashton, the most 
loathsome place in his personal universe.  Now all he had to do was 
locate and kill Blossom Titwilliger, the woman everyone said was a 
Satanist, and thus the main cause of his troubles.
        As he walked the streets of the Town, on his way to the hotel, 
his mind was filled with one thought.  He did not notice the 
curiously-painted van, with the fading stars and unicorns, as it 
drove past him, just inches from his face.  He did not see the 
celebrated figure sitting in the passenger seat, trying to look 
inconspicuous. Cecil Bland was too busy thinking, "where is she?"








The Arbor were an odd lifeform.  About the size and shape of 
raisins, floating in a nasty green soup of an atmosphere.  They did 
not need to drink, eat, make love, sleep or perform any other 
physical function.  Long before mankind had started as a single cell 
organism, the Arbor had outstripped the transitory pleasures of the 
flesh, becoming for all their apparent disadvantages a very content 
culture.  On one level, the raisin level, the Arbor did not exist, 
and on another, they had amazingly rich lives. Once they had 
possessed limbs and hearts and ambitions.  Then the green mist had 
come, a college chemistry project that had gone wrong.  After that, 
everything that the Arbor imagined came true, mental images of 
stunning reality shaped by some special quality of the mist.  In a 
very short time, the Arbor had all laid down, giving themselves up to 
their imaginary pleasures, minds and bodies completely hood-winked by 
thought, believing that they ate well, took care of their physiques; 
that they had in fact developed into a race of super-fulfilled super-
beings.  After the first few millennia, all that was left of the 
Arbor were small wizened round lumps.
        CRAAAASSSSHHHH!
        The Stratacharger Warspite, its guidance system addled by its 
journey across infinity, landed heavily on Arboria.  Not for the 
Star-Corps Major the choking veil of Emerald Mist.  Here was a planet 
of breathtaking white skyscrapers, of wide gleaming white 
thoroughfares, plentiful parks and lakes and incredible beings.  On 
this planet where thought became substance, Buck Chandler had become 
real.








It had taken lots of time and effort, not to mention painful 
falling over, before Will mastered the art of cycling.  The initial 
thrill of pumping the pedals had soon lost its magic and after a 
couple of days, Will had began to heartily detest every agonising 
second of the experience.
        'How much further?', he whined for only the fifth time in an 
hour.
        The Fantastation lay reclined on the small chaise-lounge, 
relaxed, and at peace with the world, a racy pulp novel in one hand 
and a miniaturised vodka martini in the other.
        'How much further?'
        'Could you please stop asking, "how much further?, how much 
further?" ' The voice from under the great brim of the hat mimicked 
Will's plaintive quality to perfection.
        'I want to know.'
        'We get there when we get there.  Save your breath for your 
pedalling.'
        Will reluctantly took Gilhollie's advice, concentrating on the 
recent developments in the surrounding landscape.  For the first 
couple of days, there had been nothing but the greyness and the 
signs, but then they had reached the columns. Great rounded 
structures, about the size of a small city in width, their surfaces 
shimmered with a strange energy as they thrust themselves out of 
sight into the atmosphere above his head.  Despite their drab 
colourings they were an awesome sight grouped on the unending plain. 
        'Grey floor, grey sky, grey towers.  These creators of yours 
were sure creative with colour', Will had commented with heavy 
dollops of irony.
        The towers, for all their lack of brightness, were even more 
colossal, even more magnificent as he cycled amongst them, impressed 
and fearful of their sheer size.
        'What are they doing?  Holding up the sky?'
        'You'll soon find out.' Gilhoolie had said.
        The chance came quicker then Will had expected.  Absorbed 
in thoughts of the towers and of revolt against the pampered 
Fantastation, Will had not been paying attention to the signs.  Now 
he looked ahead and realised that there were no more signs.  He had 
just passed the last one.  Panicking slightly, Will braked heavily, 
noticing with disappointment that Gilhoolie was completely unruffled 
by the abrupt halt.  
        'We're here,' it said, languidly scratching an earlobe.

        Will looked around with total disbelief.  All that cycling, all 
that effort for nothing.  "Here" was nowhere.  They were positioned 
at the closest point between two of the towers, usually there was a 
gap of at least a couple of miles between the massive structures, but 
these were different, closer, only a couple of hundred yards 
separating them.  
        'Where's Grendella?'
        'In one of those.' Gilhoolie indicated the two nearest towers.
        'She's in a five-mile wide solid column.  How am I suppose to 
rescue her?  With a pick-axe?'
        'Appearances can be deceptive.'
        'I know. I THOUGHT you were on my side.'
        The Fantastation paid no attention to Will's anger.
        'The question you have to answer, is...'
        'Why am I here?'
        'Is: Which one is she in?'
        'How can I tell? They're both the same.' Will struggled 
valiantly to keep his voice even.
        'I didn't say it would be easy.'
        'I know what the answer to this is going to be, but just to 
make things clear, what happens if I pick the wrong one?'
        'You die horribly.' The Fantastation delivered the sentence 
with casual ease.  It was in danger of becoming a catchphase. Will 
sighed to himself, nodding his head.
        'I thought you'd say that.'
        Gilhoolie was matter of fact about it.
        'You have a fifty-fifty chance.'
        'That doesn't cheer me up.'
        'You can take as long as you like to choose.'
        'Really!' Will brightened slightly.
        'I could do lunch.'
        'Sounds good.'
        'But, if you take too long, I can't guarantee that your friend 
will still be alive, and then you fail and then...'
        'We all die horribly.  I know.' Will stretched, climbing from 
the bike.
        'Whoops!'
        He smiled slightly spitefully at the little shriek as he let 
go of the handles, enjoying the moment, as bicycle and piratical 
passenger fell heavily to the ground. 
        'Decisions, decisions.' For a long time he stood musing, paying 
no attention to the disparaging comments Gilhoolie heaped on his 
genealogy, his head moving from side-to-side like that of a spectator 
watching an extremely impressive tennis rally.  On one side 
Grendella; on the other: death.
        'Oh well, better get it over with.  I wasn't enjoying life much 
anyway.' He started to walk, fairly resolutely, towards the tower on 
the right.  Sulphur was always telling him he never got anything 
"Right". This was his chance to prove the scaly upstart wrong, 
wherever he was.  At the final moment, he paused turned back, 
uncertain.
        'What do I do now?'
        The Fantastation replied from the relative comfort of its 
rescued chaise-lounge.
        'Keep going.'
        'WHAT!  Into the wall?'
        'Yes.'
        For a while, Will stood, like a novice parachutist, preparing 
to jump, summoning up all his courage.  Then he turned back.
        'Aren't you coming?'
        'Not this trip...' Gilhoolie waved his hand from side to side 
in an exaggerated gesture. 'Goodbye!'
        Will pouted irritably.
        'That's supposed to cheer me up is it? Goodbye?' He turned 
back, facing the solid wall and closed his eyes. 'You could at least 
have said Au revoir.'
        He stepped forward and vanished.

© Gary Cahalane