INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 76 of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop.

In this podcast I read my first novel, Kinsmen Die, one chapter at a time. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text.

This week we’re back with Odin who we’d last seen disguising himself as a dead warrior he’d plucked from the Ship of the Dead. Odin had ridden to where Loki’s dead wife, the witch Angrboda was buried. 

Why Angrboda? Because Odin found his uncle, Mimir, trapped inside Angrboda’s house. And in that house he discovered the remnants of an old ritual that appeared to involve her children — Fenrir the wolf, Jorm the serpent, and Hel. Then, Odin unearthed a memory of Loki threatening him, his family and everything he’d built.

So, Odin thinks that Loki and Angrboda are somehow involved in what’s happening to Baldr. That’s why Odin is here.

But remember what we’ve learned in Frigg’s chapters — that a witch named Yelena may have been involved in damaging Baldr’s mistletoe.

With that recap out of the way, let’s rejoin Odin.

Chapter Seventy-Six
Odin
The Wayfarer stood on the hill’s crown, which was bare except for the barrow of gray stones. A chill wind stirred his cloak and blew wisps of mist down toward the river behind him. He’d left his nag cropping sparse grass by a stand of trees that had retreated from the hilltop. The rain-slick cliffs of stone behind where Hel dwelled loomed in the far distance.
The Wayfarer knelt, removed his wide-brimmed hat, and ducked under his satchel’s strap. He rummaged for the four witchlamps, lit each of them in turn, and set them in large square. Then he drew his knife from the small of his back and cut deep, wide runes into the sparse grass and wet soil just behind each witchlamp. He placed his token, Baldr’s silver torc, in front of the barrow.
He rubbed his sleeve across his mouth and walked back to his horse. He grabbed a wineskin, took a long swallow, and trudged back up the hill. He rummaged for the second token, a hammered golden disk the size of his palm. At the center of the disk was a design of three interlocking triangles. Runes etched into the edge spiraled in to touch the corner of one triangle.
As they had on the road, the whispers in his mind surfaced: Read the charm. Ask the questions. Tell your story. Then like a whale that had finished breathing, the voice sank back down.
The Wayfarer raised his staff in his right hand. His left held the disk before him. He began to read the runes aloud. His voice was hoarse and weak, but it strengthened as he spoke. The dank wind rose, whipping around the hilltop. He shouted the last runes, sending them out as a fisherman might cast a line.
When he finished, the wind subsided. He dropped the disk and waited.
A mist rose from the barrow and coiled around the witchlamps like a sea serpent. The runes he’d cut in the earth flared with golden light; they kept the mist contained. The mist tested each one, then swirled toward the barrow and coalesced into the shape of a tall, lean woman garbed in a white dress with her hair pulled back from a gaunt face.
The woman knelt and with long-fingered hands lifted Baldr’s torc. She turned it this way and that, inspecting it closely.
She spoke, words falling like slabs of ice into the sea. “Long was I dead, snowed under, smitten with rain, and drenched with dew. Why have you, whoever you are, made me travel back along the troublous road?”
The Wayfarer stood straight, staff in his right hand, hat pushed back. “Call me Vegtam, great lady, for I have traveled all my life.”
“You would have me call you Wayfarer, then? That’s not a fit name for an enchanter. You know my name, else you couldn’t have summoned me. What may I call you?”
“Your pardon, great lady. I may have spoken the words, but I’m no enchanter. Another’s power drew you.”
She narrowed her eyes and then darted toward him, hands extended like the talons of a plunging raptor.
The Wayfarer stumbled back and raised his staff to defend himself. The air between himself and the charging spirit flared golden, and she was flung back. She darted forward again, crashed into the unseen line between two witchlamps. Again, she was flung back in a shower of golden sparks. She dragged one white hand all around the barrier; sparks followed in her wake. When she had made a complete circuit, she drifted back to the square’s center, expression thoughtful.
“So, Vegtam, the father of enchanters taught you well.”
“He taught me nothing. He gave me detailed instructions and a token, much like that one there,” the Wayfarer said with a shrug. He gestured toward the silver torc on the dead grass.
Angrboda looked down at it, then back up at him. “And what did he ask of you, Vegtam?”
“As you well know, great lady, he commands the dead. He didn’t ask.”
“He treats the living in much the same way.”
“That, I wouldn’t know. I lived out the arc of my nights in another land.”
The spirit drifted closer, expression interested. “And where are you from, Vegtam?”
“My people issue from his brother’s loins. We live upon the coast far from where the father of enchanters sits watch.”
“How curious.” She drifted forward until she stood opposite him. “You know, we find ourselves in a similar situation, both required to do something we would not, had we a choice. May I have your name? You have mine, after all.”
A wide grin spread across the Wayfarer’s face. He shook a finger at her. “After he told me the questions he wanted answered, he specifically warned me not to tell you my name, great lady. Not that it would do you much good, dead as I am.”
Angrboda’s eyes narrowed. She leaned in closer still. “You are Einherjar, then?”
The spark of Odin deep within the Wayfarer twitched at her words. What? Einherjar?
Her lips pursed and she cocked her head slightly, as if straining to hear a whisper.
The Wayfarer gave voice to Odin’s thoughts. “I don’t understand, great lady. Einherjar? Those are his warriors, living men and women, while I am—”
“But you are Aesir, yes?” she asked, waving a translucent hand toward him. “And he plucked you from the ship of the dead as it sailed here, to my daughter’s realm?”
“You know he did, great lady.”
A wicked grin spread across her face. “I could ask my daughter for your name. She could learn it and then give it to me. And once I had it, I could find out why you’re really here.”
“I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here, great lady, if you’ll let me,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “And besides, what you threaten would take time—time enough for me to tell the Valfather of what you attempt. I believe his anger would be boundless, as would his vengeance.”
Angrboda eyed him sharply then shrugged. “What else can he do to me? He’s already taken everything I loved.”
“I don’t know your story, I’m sorry to say. I only know what I’ve been required to do.” Then he added, “But in my experience, there’s always something worse that could be done.”
“And what is your task, Vegtam?”
“The Valfather wants me to ask you about his son Baldr.”
Her expression gave nothing away. “Why ask me?”
“I only know what he told me to ask.”
The spirit pursed her lips and slowly walked back toward the barrow, her pale feet leaving the barest impression on the cold, wet ground. She lifted Baldr’s silver torc. “I knew whose this was the moment I looked at it. But tell me, Wayfarer, why should I answer the Valfather’s questions after what he did to me and mine?”
That spark of Odin deep down within the Wayfarer again stirred at her words. Whose it “was”? My son lives still. Ask her what she meant.
Again, Angrboda’s head cocked to one side as if she were trying to hear something far away. Without warning, she flung the torc at him. The silver missile flew straight through the barrier.
He caught it neatly in his free hand. “You have no more choice than I do, great lady. He’s given me the power to compel you, should you refuse.” He thrust the torc into his satchel. “Just now, you said ‘whose this was.’ What did you mean? Baldr still lives.”
“Of course he does,” she said easily, smiling as she drifted closer. “Tell me, Wayfarer, why should I answer questions about Baldr? Or about anything? I am unwilling to speak and would again be still.”
That’s not good enough, the spark of Odin said, drifting higher.
The Wayfarer shook his head and extended his hand. “Great lady, I am not permitted to leave here without answers, true answers, to all the questions the Valfather bade me ask. I don’t wish to use the power he gave me, but I will. I fear his wrath more than your daughter’s.”
“Nothing he says can be trusted.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin.
He dug in the bag and brought the torc back out. “You may have this as a gift.”
Angrboda laughed. Crows fled into the air from the withered trees surrounding the glade. “And what would I do with it? I am unwilling to speak and would again be still.”
The Wayfarer shoved the torc back into his bag even as the spark of Odin inside him burned hotter. The Wayfarer spoke a word, and golden light shone from the tip of his staff. He took one step forward and held the staff higher, as if the spirit before him couldn’t see it.
A smile played about Angrboda’s lips. “The carrot having failed, you switch to the stick. How like your master. A third time I say, I am unwilling to speak and would again be still.”
A long moment of stillness hung over the hilltop, like a dark bird riding high on the winds. The flame of Odin’s anger inside the Wayfarer’s mind dimmed, and he lowered the staff. Hold off for a moment. This is the time to offer her the story of your death—that which I saw in your memories which so intrigued me. If that doesn’t work, use the power I gave you.
“A thought occurs to me, great lady. Perhaps you would instead be interested in a trade?”
The witch said nothing. She stared at the Wayfarer arms crossed beneath her breasts.
“I offer you this: the story of my death. In return, you tell me what you see of Baldr’s doom. Tale for tale. True telling for true telling.”
Angrboda began drifting back toward him. Her expression was thoughtful, her gaze piercing. Finally, she said, “Tell me, Wayfarer, why should I care about your death?”
The Wayfarer nodded slowly, but inside those memories, Odin smiled. We have her now. Tell her why I chose you.
“I am an Aesir, but as I said, my people are descended from Vili, one of the Valfather’s brothers. I was born to a seafaring clan. My people and I plied the coasts of a new land for more than two hundred winters before the Alfather found us.”
“Interesting. I knew that Vili and Ve had left, but not where they had gone. Even so, you offered the tale of your death, not your life.”
The Wayfarer smiled and raised a hand. “I know. I’m coming to that. Have you heard of the Exile?”
“And the war that preceded it. Yes, I know of it,” she replied, drifting still closer.
“Well, I know where the Svartalvar ended up.” The Wayfarer’s smile became a grin. “I know because it was they who killed me.”
She pointed at him, her expression fierce. “If you lie, I will know.”
“I will not lie,” the Wayfarer said. “Do we have a bargain, then?”
Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, she nodded.
“Speak the words then, wise woman. You know how this works. I offer the true story of my death in exchange for your true telling of Baldr’s doom.”
“And I offer my true telling of Baldr’s doom in exchange for the true story of your death.”
“The deal is struck.” The Wayfarer drove his staff into the dank earth. He tucked his cloak beneath him and sat cross-legged on the ground and scooped up his discarded wineskin. He took a long pull, wiped his mouth, and began.

***

The Wayfarer’s Tale
“Before I died and ended up here,” the Wayfarer said, with a gesture that encompassed both the hilltop and the drab forest below, “I sailed, traded, and raided all along the coast of my native land. A hundred Aesir in three ships followed me.
“Aegir and Rán sped my wooden steeds across the waters for many winters. I was never too ruthless nor too kind, and I sacrificed often. Many a bog and lake are home to the bent swords and shattered spears of my enemies—offerings to Rán. To Aegir, I offered those few prisoners I took. Many times, I gave my own blood just as my followers and kinsmen did. And some gave their lives. But their names lived on, and our reputations grew in the telling.”
He fell silent for a moment, composing his thoughts. Memories swamped him like a foundering skiff. Then, as if he felt a favorable wind at his back, he set his hand on the tiller, nodded to the spirit, and said, “And so I begin the tale of my death.
“We had just raided a fortified town and were fleeing back down the wide, fast-moving river we had sailed up from the sea. We had won some treasure, but the town had fought harder than we’d expected and their seidkonur had sent a towering column of spinning wind and water after us—”
“Their sorceress conjured a cyclone, eh? She was a strong,” Angrboda said. “Was she Alvar? That sounds more like their sorcery.”
“No, she was an Aesir. I only mention the seidkonur and her storm because I believe it related to what happened to us. You see, it chased my ships down the river. The air boomed with the storm’s voice, lightning crawled across a sky that ran from black to a greenish, sickly yellow. When the storm struck, the river itself heaved like a bucking stallion. Warm white water poured in through the shields. We rose high, shuddered sideways, and then, a heartbeat later, we slammed down again. Our mast went by the board and we began to spin, my men sliding and stumbling across the flexing deck.
“To larboard, one of my companion ships rolled broadside to the wind and foundered. Just like that.” The Wayfarer snapped his fingers. “To starboard, my other ship shot round backward, slammed into the wreckage of her sister, and began sinking. And we were about to follow that same awful course.
“I cried out for Aegir and Rán to remember my many sacrifices and spare us a watery doom. Maybe they heard, for the winds diminished and the river calmed. I took on what survivors I could find, shipped a new steering board, and manned the remaining oars, alongside those men we’d pulled from the water. And so we few survivors continued our flight downriver to the sea.”
The Wayfarer fell silent and stooped, catching up his wineskin. He took a long pull, head tipped back.
“Odd that you drink, seeing as how you’re dead,” Angrboda said.
He lowered the wineskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then replaced the plug and met her cool gaze.
“The Valfather said it would keep me whole during my task. I don’t know why.” He shrugged. “I’d do so even if it spilled from the hole in my belly. It reminds me of my living days.”
Angrboda replied with a smile that could have meant anything. “The Valfather did have a fondness for wine. He never consumed anything but wine, at least as long as I knew him.”
“I never had that pleasure—of knowing him while I lived, I mean,” the Wayfarer said. “Shall I continue?”
“Oh, by all means.” She drifted backward and gestured with one pale hand even as her smile returned.
The Wayfarer sketched a bow. “The wind had left us, but a thick mist took its place. We couldn’t see an oar’s length beyond the ship. And it had grown hot, hotter than it had been when we sailed up the river, but we were hard at work so didn’t think too much of it. The current took us fast toward the sea, which was a good thing, since most of my warband were knotting and splicing the ropes, plugging holes, and shipping new oars. The sailmaker plied his craft, too, though we needed a new mast. The trip downriver seemed to take longer than it should have, but time seemed fuzzy in that mist—and we were busy.
“When we finally reached the delta, a huge stone outcropping loomed from the mist. It had not been there when we sailed up the river. I exchanged a long glance with my kjolr. That’s when we knew something was very wrong. But what could we do? I’d lost most of my warband, my ship needed more repairs, and the townsfolk might have set out after us.
“So we put the ship before what wind there was and rowed down the coast—or maybe up it. Who knew at that point? We rowed all through that long, hot day. When the mist finally burned off, it became even more clear that we were lost. In every sense of the word. The shores were thick with heavy green foliage and even thicker with strange, unknown sounds. Shapes swung through the trees, seeming to track our progress. And merciless Sól was hot on our backs.
“Eventually, Sól rode down beyond the forest. Several of my warband chose that time to question my decisions, so I put their corpses over the side in offering to Rán. Their bodies were quickly torn apart by spears-long, scaly-backed monsters that bumped and jostled our ship long after they’d devoured our dead. To starboard, the land began leaning away from us to form a great bay. In the failing light, I spied a smooth, sandy shore, so I took us in. Setting foot on an unknown shore blanketed by a dark forest turned out to be a bad decision, but at the time, we needed water and food.”
“And a mast.”
“That, too. The ship beached, we armed ourselves and ventured into the forest. We didn’t go far, gathering what fallen limbs we could for a fire. I wanted to build a wall between us and the forest. We felled several trees, working to finish before Sól fled, and dragged them back to make several fires and rude barriers. There were maybe three ships’ lengths between our camp, just beyond the high-water mark, and the tree line. Come dawn, we’d deal with our ship.”
The Wayfarer snorted and looked up at Máni, which hung like a silver coin above the scraggly trees. “As it turned out, none of us would make it to the dawn.”
“You have my interest, Wayfarer,” Angrboda said. “Take a moment, if you need it. Or perhaps another drink?”
He smiled and doffed his hat. “No, great lady, I’m fine. But I do appreciate your concern.”
She smiled in reply and mimicked his gesture.
He settled his hat back on his head and gestured up toward the moon. “Once Máni’s face had risen full above the sea, the forest went deathly quiet. The only sound were the waves pounding the shore. We knew something was coming. We formed a shield wall and began withdrawing to the ships. We hadn’t reached the waves before massive beasts unlike anything I’d seen stepped from the forest. Armored. All scales and teeth and claws. They were arrayed in a long line before us and to either side. I stopped counting at fifty.
“Sharp-eyed Tothir gasped and pointed. ‘They carry riders, Jarl.’ I looked again. Riders, indeed. One of the beasts lurched forward. A man-shaped figure slid off its back and came slightly closer. It stood in the open, clearly staring down at us. It said nothing. My heart pounding in my chest, the sea’s scent thick in my nose, I stepped forward and spread my arms wide, hands open. ‘We were shipwrecked,’ I called out.”
The Wayfarer smiled and met Angrboda’s gaze. “Fool that I was.”
“Those were the Svartalvar, I take it?”
“Oh, yes. Though I didn’t know it at first.”
“But Ygg and the golden Vanir had exiled them to another realm,” she said, frowning. “You’re saying you ended up there yourself?”
“I’m not sure what happened, great lady. All I know is what I told you: the river we sailed down was not the same one we sailed up. And that coast we clung to?” The Wayfarer laughed, the sound short and sharp. Birds scattered from the hilltop’s withered trees. “It wasn’t the same. I spent my life at sea and all along the coast of my birth. I went farther than most, found new lands. But I never saw any like that. Ever. Until that storm.”
“Curious,” she said. “And so how did you die?”
“You still want to know?”
“Certainly, Wayfarer. You have my interest, as I said. And more than that, we struck a bargain.”
The Wayfarer inclined his head, raised his wineskin in salute, and took another pull. “The figure stood there by his beast, staring at us. A familiar creak reached my ears, and moments later, a heavy cart trundled into the gap in their lines. It was pulled by another of those armored creatures, except this one walked on four legs. It looked as if they had put a small forge on the cart. Flames danced behind a grating, and warm yellow light fell across the sand. A man-figure passed through that light, walking toward the first figure, its shadow long and narrow across the sand.
“Behind me, my warband stirred. They’d guessed what was happening. Had we not raided a hundred towns together? Sometimes a town would strike a bargain and pay us to leave—treasure, food, sometimes women. If they seemed too strong, I’d agree. But they always made some show of force. That’s what was happening here. But the towns that preferred to talk always sent someone forward after the display, and these folk had yet to do that. Battered as we were, facing these scaled beasts and their riders, I suspected we would have to fight. And probably die. But I took the other option.
“You ran.”
“Oh, yes,” the Wayfarer said with a big grin. “Tried to, anyway. To my warband, I whispered, ‘Fall back to the ship. Let’s get her afloat.’ As we backed away, I kept my eyes and ears on the pair of figures silhouetted before the forge-wagon. They might have been arguing, arms swinging up to gesture toward us. ‘Run, before they make up their minds.’ We turned and ran, maybe twenty yards to the ship. We’d beached her high, to be safe. ‘Free the rolling logs,’ I yelled, and a few men jumped to it. The rest of us set hands on her sides and began to push.”
The Wayfarer paused. “You know that sound a fire makes when it first catches?”
Angrboda nodded.
“Well, imagine that sound passing directly overhead. A ball of fire struck our ship square amidships and burst. We fell back with a yell. Even before the second fireball hit, my ship was ablaze. I spun round and saw one figure standing before the forge-cart. He reached back as if he was about to throw a spear, and the fire in the cart dimmed. Then he made a throwing motion, and fire swept out of the wagon and streaked toward us. Then the forge fire danced merrily until he threw again.”
“Imaginative use of seidr,” she mused. “And what did these figures look like? How do you know they were Svartalvar?”
“Oh, I’m nearly there, great lady. I didn’t last much longer.” He took another quick drink. “A pair of my sailors died when the ship went up. Burned alive. My warband had numbered one hundred twenty-eight before the raid on the town. Thirty-six stood with me now, staring at our ship’s flaming ruin, the heat baking the wetness from our clothes. ‘Well, boys, we’ve had quite the time together,’ I said, meeting each man’s eyes. I knew them like brothers. I wouldn’t trust them with a widow’s fortune, but with my life? Sure.
“‘Cattle die, kinsmen die, and so will we—on this beach, no less. But one thing that will never die is the fame of our deeds. I will make sure of it,’ I said to them. I drew my axe as a last fireball impacted the burning ship. ‘I’m going to kill at least one of these bastards. Are you with me?’”
Angrboda murmured, “And so you kept your promise, Wayfarer.”
The Wayfarer nodded, but didn’t break the beat of his story. He raised his hand as he’d done his axe. “I didn’t wait for them to answer. I spun and charged toward the tree line, feet sinking in the sand. From the shouts and grunts of effort, it sounded as if many of the warband had followed. My eyes were still dazzled by the light from my burning ship, but as I ran, my vision cleared. The line of riders to my left rippled like a stirring snake. Their leader shouted something, and the whole line of warriors charged us.
“I say ‘us’ because my warband had caught up with me—most of ’em, from what I could tell in those few heartbeats of time between their forming a small shield wall with me at its center. 
“The beasts charged us, heads lowered, weaving back and forth like swimming snakes. Their riders were perched high, and each leveled a bright-pointed spear. A dozen hit our attempt at a shield wall and went right through it.
“My shield shattered on my arm. Broke my arm, too. I remember screaming out as the world flew out from under me. The clawed foot of one of those beasts slammed into my head. My warband’s cries rang around me as they fell, just as I did. I ended up on my back staring up at Máni’s blank, pale face—the bastard. I wheezed for breath, twitching like a turtle trying to regain its feet.
“I blinked, and a second, much closer, pale face loomed into view above me. Large eyes that reflected the light gazed down into mine. A foot hammered into my side and I rolled with it, my broken shield arm screaming. But I came up to my feet, scooping up an axe as I did.
“The figure before me was tall, stocky, and pale like the underbelly of a snake. He wore a mix of black armor that glinted dully in places but otherwise seemed to be leathers. His lips were a tight line across his face. In one hand, he held a long-handled weapon with a spiked metal ball on the end. His hair was dark and pulled tight against his head.
“One of his compatriots came up beside him. His head was completely covered and many-faceted gems glittered where his eyes should have been. This second one had weapons on his belt but none in his hands. The first warrior raised his weapon in challenge and shuffled across the sand toward me, while the hooded one moved forward behind the first.
“As the first one got close, his spiked club swinging up, I splat blood into his face. He dodged most of it—he was quick—but I kicked him in the stomach. He folded over, and I smashed my axe into his spine. I ripped it out and spun into an attack that the second hooded figure blocked with a small shield.
“From that figure’s other hand, a cold bit of night lashed out and buried itself in my belly. I remember looking down at a black blade. When the warrior twisted his sword, I gasped and met his eyes, they were large and shiny, like silver platters, though they were hidden behind large blue gems. He shoved me off his sword, and I fell back onto the sand.
“I don’t know how long I lay there, clutching the hole in my stomach and staring up at the moon, until a new figure stepped into view above me. This second one kicked me in the ribs and then squatted to hiss, ‘Tell your Valfather and his Vanir bootlickers that Eitri sends his greetings. We are coming for him.’”
The Wayfarer leaned forward on his staff. “I must have died then, for I remember nothing else until Odin pulled me from Rán’s ship, gave me my task, and set my feet upon the road here.
“And thus have I upheld my end of our bargain.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 76 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

This may be my favorite chapter in the book. The scene itself is based on Balders Draumar — Baldr’s Dreams, from the Poetic Edda. 

I used some of the language from that poem — the part about being snowed on with snow and the troublous road. I also used the “unwilling I speak and would again be still” formula.

The Wise-Woman in the poem, however, is not Angrboda. I made that change b/c it made sense for my story. In that poem, Odin does disguise himself as Vegtam, the Wayfarer. 

I also decided to link in Odin’s missing brothers — Vegtam being a descendant of Vili to refer back to Odin’s opening chapters … remember he was out West searching for his brothers.

The part where we go into the Wayfarer’s Tale is actually a bit of backstory, as it refers to the Exile of the Svartalvar and we do see the Svartalvar in all their dark glory. This is also a potential tie-in to another Svartalvar-centric story that I’ve partially written.

Next week, we’re back with Frigg.

Until then, if you have the time and inclination, please rate and/or review the podcast — that helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it.
  
As always, I’m going to read from both the Bellows and Larrington translations of the Havamal, the sayings of the High One, Odin himself.

Note that this stanza is 76 in Bellows, but Larrington and Kodratoff have it as verse 78, as does Crawford’s translation. I have not found an explanation as to why they are ordered differently. This ordering straightens itself out in the subsequent stanzas. 

Bellows, Verse 76
Among Fitjung's sons saw I well-stocked folds,--
Now bear they the beggar's staff;
Wealth is as swift as a winking eye,
Of friends the falsest it is.

Larrington, Verse 78
Fully stocked folds I saw for Fitiung’s sons, now they carry a beggar’s staff;
wealth is like the twinkling of an eye,
it is the most unreliable of friends.

Note that Fitjung is a made-up name. It just means “random wealthy dude.”

Thanks for listening.