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To be clear I am glad SASS is taking steps to make the wire more secure. I am an addict and even look at the wire during commercials on the TV. If this makes logon more difficult this may help break me from my affliction.

A GOOD TEACHER Michael Keller took a long breath, closed his eyes, blew it out. He knew he stood a good chance of being shot. A very good chance. He'd just watched two of his father's deputies hit, saw them drop. His young hands clutched his 92 Winchester. So far he hadn't been spotted. He knew he had to move, and when he did, he had to be fast and accurate. Likely he could make hits that counted, at least until he crossed what his pale eyed Pa called the Dead Line -- the point at which he could be seen. And shot. I'm damned if he's going to beat me! Michael thought -- fear and anticipation warred for primacy in his young chest, in his anxiety-twisted young guts. Neither won, but Michael's adrenaline pump was hammering right up against the governor. He rolled over, dropped prone. He knew the other deputies started out by running. He didn't. He rolled out from behind cover just far enough -- Six shots, six fast-levered shots, the shining brass bead of a front sight going right where he wanted them to -- Michael rolled back behind cover, drove six handloaded .25-20s into the loading gate. Now. Move! Michael rose, dove behind the next plastic 55 gallon drum, shoved a boot out, yanked it back. Paintballs drove into the cinders where polished boot leather had just been. Michael reached up, grabbed the rim of the barrel, dumped it over, kicked it, hard. Paintballs hammered against the rolling blue plastic drum and Michael snapped a shot at the mannikin's head. The automated opponent's head detonated in a great showy flash of flame. Michael Keller came up on one knee, his rifle's muzzle still trained on the mechanical opponent: he rose slowly, covering the mortally-wounded enemy, advanced on it, hammer back, finger curled around the trigger. He walked up to it, lowered his rifle's hammer to half cock, then reared back and drove a kick into the track-mounted mechanical monster, folding it over backwards. He turned, looked at his father, standing with a clipboard and a pleased expression. He looked at Victoria, jumping up and down like a cheerleader, he looked at Sheriff's deputies, whistling and grinning and air-fisting him -- him! -- then he saw Victoria's eyes widen and he spun, drove three fast rounds into the resurrected, radar-guided, headless paintball mechanism. A stranger stood beside the Sheriff, regarding Michael with professional eyes. The stranger and the Sheriff walked up to the sizzling, snapping, shorted-out mechanical device. Michael slowly ran three more rounds into his loading gate, listened to the spring whispering as he topped off his rifle, then he walked up and joined them. Two men and a boy looked at the ruined device -- a high-priced, high-tech, computer-guided, radar-eyed, track-mounted paintball machine built into an anatomic mannikin. "Between the eyes," the salesman murmured. "Yes, sir," Michael replied. "You cleared the six-plate rack as fast as I can with an AR." "Yes, sir." "Young man" -- the salesman looked at the Sheriff, looked at Michael -- "you are the only one so far, to survive!" "Yes, sir." Michael looked at his Pa, who was trying hard not to grin. "I have a good teacher, sir."

THE WHITE ONION Marnie Keller turned sideways, smiled a little at her full-length reflection as she caressed her expanding middle. She spun a robe around her shoulders, thrust her feet into a pair of fleece lined slippers, tied the ribbon belt around her waist, glided into the kitchen. Pancakes, she thought. Blueberry pancakes. Marnie tapped the screen on the wall-unit, said "Six stack of blueberry pancakes, bacon fried crispy, two eggs fried over medium and wheat toast with butter." She released her finger from the screen, then touched it again. "And tea. Earl Grey, big mug, teaspoon of honey." Angela Keller keyed in her destination, stepped through the Iris, stopped, blinked in surprise. Marnie's fist was cocked, her other hand holding a plate with a half dozen cylindrical cans -- "YOU IDIOT MACHINE, I SAID A SIX STACK, NOT A SIX PACK! I DON'T WANT PANCAKES IN A CAN, I WANT A STACK OF SIX PANCAKES!" Marnie ran out of wind, stopped, took two deep breaths. "IS THAT SUCH A HARD CONCEPT FOR YOUR TRANSISTOR BRAIN TO UNDERSTAND?" Marnie's face was dark, the cords in her neck were standing out, and Angela was not at all sure whether her sister was going to drive the plate full of canned pancakes into the control panel, whether she was going to drive her fist through the touch screen, or whether she was going to step back and throw the cans, one at a time, just as hard as she could. Part of Angela's mind considered that the ceramic plate that held the cans, would make a fine Frisbee, if flung as a weapon at the offending dispenser. Marnie turned -- as she saw her sister, her rage fell from her face like water cascading off an oilskin, and was gone. She placed the plate and its wobbling cargo on the table, blinked, tilted her head a little. "Hello," she smiled, "you're just in time for breakfast!" The dispenser hummed again: Marnie reached in, pulled out another plate: bacon and eggs, hot and steaming, and then a big mug of shimmering-brown tea. "Why ... don't ... I try some canned pancakes," Angela said hesitantly. Marnie set her plate down, waved a hand at the dispenser: Angela walked gracefully, delicately, as a matter of course. As she approached her now-quiet-voiced sister -- her full-powered screaming RAGE ringing in Angela's memory, if not off the walls -- she walked as if she were treading on eggshells. "Earl Grey, honey, big mug," she told the dispenser, then reached in and retrieved her steaming-hot beverage. Angela picked up a can -- it was about the size of a beer can, back home -- she pressed both thumbs under its lip, popping the top up. She ran a butter knife inside the can, between its cargo and the sidewall, turned it upside down. A stack of pancakes fell out -- smaller than she was used to, hot, shining with butter and honey and a dusting of cinnamon. "Blueberry?" she asked. Marnie glared at her. Angela picked up her plate, set it over with her sister's platter. Marnie glared daggers at the dispenser as Angela went over and spoke to it; she came back just as Marnie opened another can of pancakes, dumped it without ceremony atop the first can's contents. "Did you enjoy your time back home?" Marnie mumbled through a full mouth. "I did," Angela replied, daintily spreading a napkin on her lap, unfolding a second, tucking it into her collar and draping it delicately over her bodice. "I saved a child's life." "Show-off," Marnie muttered, took a noisy slurp of tea. "You act like you're starving." "I am." Marnie bit savagely at a bacon strip. "What else?" Angela blinked innocently, cut into her pancakes with her fork. "I went in disguise," she said quietly. Marnie grunted, seized the pepper shaker, peppered her eggs severely. Angela withheld comment, though privately she considered just how much of an inferno her own throat would feel, had she seasoned her eggs to that degree. "Disguised. As what?" Angela smiled, forked up a bite of blueberry pancake. "An onion." The Lady Esther whistled cheerfully to the depot as she departed. A good percentage of the passengers in the only passenger car, were tourists, and of these, the very young were restless and impatient, deprived of their screens and hand-held entertainment. Children are, however, resilient, and when they can't entertain themselves with the familiar, they will look for something interesting, and one little boy regarded the unmoving figure, all in white. "How come you have a scarf over your face?" he asked with the bluntness of the young. The featureless female figure turned its head, which reminded the little boy of a special-effect he'd seen on TV, where a marble statue turned its head and spoke. "I'm a nun. I am one of the White Sisters." "What's a White Sister?" "We are of the Order of St Mercurius," she replied gently. "We are Sworn Religious, and as part of our sacred vows, we hide our faces from the world." "How come?" the lad persisted. Angela smiled as Marnie inhaled the last of her eggs, cut into another can's worth of pancakes. "So what did you tell him? -- oh God this is so good!" Angela's eyebrows raised a little and she laughed quietly, smiling behind her heavy mug of burgamo-scented tea. "I told him he had to promise never, ever to tell, and then I lifted my veil." "You didn't!" Marnie breathed, delight in her eyes and a smile broadening her face. "Oh, yes," Angela nodded. "I thought ... if I'm disguising myself like Sarah McKenna used to, why not go all the way?" "The scar?" "The scar," Angela nodded, lowering her mug, tracing a line from the corner of her eye down her cheek, down over her jaw bone and across her throat. "Nonflexible collodion, a painted-on scar line. I lifted my veil and whispered to him that I used to sing opera." Angela sighed and laughed quietly. "When we arrived at Rabbitville Station, I stood to get off, and as I walked to the back door of the passenger car, I could hear the little boy -- he was probably pointing at me -- tell someone, "She's a White Onion!"

Advice for your 8-year-old self? Learn how to spell.

An elderly couple returns to a Mercedes dealership where the salesman has just sold the car they were interested in to a stunning, tall, and busty blonde. "I thought you said you’d hold that car until we raised the $75,000 asking price," said the man. "Yet I just heard you closed the deal for $65,000 with that lovely young lady there. You insisted there could be no discount on this model." "Well, what can I say? She had the cash ready, and just look at her, how could I resist?" replied the grinning salesman. Just then, the young woman approached the elderly couple and handed them the keys "There you go," she said. "I told you I’d get the jerk to lower the price. See you later, grandpa." Never underestimate the elderly! 😃

No wonder my knees hurt.