(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

damp cloth.
"Chief, I have no idea what this cube is rattling on about."
"I thought you were the expert on the Planes."
"Wh - I know more than you, you staggering, guttural amnesiac! 'Sides,
here's three more bits of knowledge to rattle around in that empty
brain-box of yours: one, there are NO experts on the Planes, two, I'm the
closest thing to one you're going to find, and three, treat me with some
respect. Why? See the second reason."
"Nordom, what are modrons?"
There was a klik-klik-klik as Nordom executed a rapid series of blinks, then
he chrrruped. "Query: Modron, what is? Define: Modron? I am modron."
"Yes, but what is a modron?"
"Query: Modron, Defined: Modron, I am a modron, Answered." The shutters
over Nordom's eyes kliked shut a few times, and his 'eyes' dilated to points.
"New Query -"Modron, But what IS? Define: But what is Modron? Modron is
Nordom. Backward Nordom = Modron."
"But..."
"Aighhhh! For the sake of the Powers and my sanity, cut it out! He's going to
snap a crank if you keep asking him that over and over!" Morte yowled.
I shrugged, giving my mug a shake to signal the bartender for a refill, "Well, I
wanted to know the answer, and I was getting it from him."
"Look, chief, NORMAL modrons barely understand anything beyond their
basic tasks, and this stupid polygon here is fresh off the Planes to boot.
Don't confuse the cube, all right? At least, not while he's armed. You want to
know about modrons, ask me, not him."
"All right, Morte... what can you tell me about modrons?"
"It's like this, chief: Modrons are these stupid geometric shapes that clank
around on their home plane, Mechanus -- they're really tidy, orderly, and
866