“War-HALL,” he exclaimed from his chair opposite Ross C.’s, or at least the one she stood behind. “Not War-HOLE.”
“I will correct that in my programming, sire.” But she never did. To her he would always be a hole with capital letters. She’d served him too long.
“Anything else Mr. Warhole?”
He sighed. “No. You may retired for the night. *Behind* your chair again.”
“As you wish, sire.” Her lights went out as she slumped over in place.
“You again (!)”
Sunklands 