“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.