*I have fabricated a Comanche story for this chapter. While this is not historically accurate, please note it is not to offend anyone. Please be mindful this is a fanfic created for viewing purposes only, and is in no way, shape or form, based on actual historical accounts in regards to the Comanche.*

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chant

Enjoying his manhood bonding with the likes of his kind, Doc observed the bustling activity of his quaint town. This was the way Radiator Springs was supposed to be. It was fully renovated with old historic landmarks and buildings fully restored. Even businesses that had once gone out of business had been repainted, restored and were back in operation. The colors were well-suited for a desert-like dwelling yet still captivated that magical touch of ages past. Seeing tourists about was now a daily scene to Radiator Springs. Despite it being a tiny town, there was much to do here. Though a desert community, there was a small valley not far away where many visitors did their four-wheeling terrain or simply take in nature. With it was a small river. While Sarge and Fillmore argued on about the sixties' detrimental contributions to social change they captured the full attention of the others in their circle, each siding with one vehicle or the other. With Doc feeling better about his former discussion they now turned to the matter at hand of Sarge vs. Fillmore.

Doc was too busy watching a couple across the street at Luigi's tire store to pay any attention. They had their small son with them, a little car, though it was hard to tell what kind of car he was exactly. Vehicles were generally born with no protective metal plating, but just their frames. So they were practically naked for the first year or so. One could see their wires and all. When children were about 8 months old their exo-skeletal frames began to take on a distinctive shape, anything from a small compact car to a truck, or whatever. So it was not uncommon for parents who were both cars to produce an SUV or a truck, or vise versus.

Or one parent was a car, one a mini van, and they could produce a kid that resembled one or the other, or may not resemble either of them. Nature always overrode the style of the mother and father; the baby would take on a certain shape which dictated what it was most likely going to be. It was around this time that parents decided to get their infants fitted for an actual car body. How the little one's shape frame developed determined the kind of car or truck design he or she would be. This was also when a baby's first wheels were attached. It was around this time from 10 months to 1 year that most vehicles took on the form they would carry with them for the rest of their lives. While some simply upgrades each year to a newer version of that model as they grew, most cars chose to keep the year they were fitted with instead, happy with themselves as they were.

It was common for very young vehicles to be born designated with designs as antique as Doc and Sheriff and they were happy with it. That New York tourist Kyle and the Delinquents' buddy Hoodie...the good doctor met these two when they were in town. They were way younger than him and were born Hudson Hornets like him. It was nice to chat with two of "his kind" for change, he had to admit. Some like Hoodie were exactly his year and make while Kyle's kind had the distinct split windshield antenna that didn't exist in other Hornets. It didn't matter; they were all Hudson Hornets and were easy to spot. Doc smiled to himself as he tried to guess what the couple's kid would wobble out as. He looked like a possible Volkswagon bug. Newer Beetle make. Maybe an older 70s version. Babies having an older model was as common as those sporting more modern ones.

But there was nothing wrong with upgrading either. This too was considered the norm. Most "upgrades" looked similar. By adolescence most would keep their latest year's design as their final one. Just as many chose not to ever upgrade, but kept their original first casings for life, choosing to get a larger version as they grew. Like Doc; he was born as a then-unknown 1951 Hornet. When a new model came into existence with the changing era it generally took years for experts to put a named classification on it so children who appeared to evolve into a new design were at first labeled as "unknowns" until a concept could be agreed upon.

Unknowns occurred all the time to adapt with the times. Fanciers came up with the name Hudson Hornet by the mid 1940s and Doc naturally turned into a newer type which would ultimately become the 1951 Hudson Hornet. But he could have upgraded to a 1952, 53 or 54 Hudson Hornet but never did as he, like the majority, was content with his original year's design. Doc still found it amazing how cars went from being wooden carts rolling on wooden spoke wheels way back to full metal-and-engine burning wonders.

Scientists would credit that wonder to the glory of evolution. For Doc, it was a wonder of the Big Guy. He was a lover of science like many. It was his favorite topic from grade school to high school, but there were some things he found hard to accept. He didn't exactly buy into the theory that cars "crawled out of a pile of lightning-struck tree branches in prehistoric times, miraculously became glued together by a bunch of atoms" somehow, developed a mentality and started roaming about converting leaves to oil by primitive means. He had no animosity for those who held that view. He just believed what the majority of the population believed: there was some higher power at work here that made all this, all of THEM, come to be.

He was not very religious, but he was brought up like most of the world, to believe in the Almighty. On his dad's side there was another term for Him: The Great Spirit. Also known as The Great One. Or The Protector. He knew where his ancestors came from and he refused to believe that they were slivers of splintered sticks that suddenly jumped up and wrapped themselves together. Or were stone age slabs carved from volcanoes who suddenly came alive, then stumbled about aimlessly on wobbly stone wheels grunting as a primitive means of communication. He grinned to himself at the humor of it all, science's explanation of such things but the smile quickly faded when the couple emerge from Ramone's with their infant in his first true body. They had chosen red. There was something about that color that Doc couldn't stand. It was evident what the little car now was too: a newer version of the VW Beetle. His assumption was right after all.

Doc shut his eyes, shaking his head. The little boy was cute, but that wasn't it. He stared at the child again. His eyes slowly blanked out into a hundred-mile gaze past the kid as memories started coming back to him. For a fleeting moment the horrific scene replayed itself briefly in his mind, envisioned so realistically that Doc thought it was tangible. Him standing there at the train tracks with the fluids and oils that were not his splattered all over him. His flashback gone, he blinked casually and then inhaled. He had to leave. Now.

"Thank you gentlemen for your conversation. I really needed that." He told the group, and then left.

x

He honored his mother last week, now it was time to pay reverence to his sire. Doc was named after his father. Hudson Spirit Warrior the I. He opted to name his half-Irish son Hudson Spirit Warrior II. An infant Doc was christened by both a Native American shaman on the Reservation and by a Catholic cardinal downtown at St. Michael's. His mother wanted the baby named after his or her sire. He made his way out to Willy's Butte where the sun was now setting. An elaborately-beaded band hung around his entire body, under him and secured at the top. Two sets of feathers adorned both sides near his side view mirrors. This headband was a treasured heirloom to generations of paternal grandfathers. His father believed that if he spoke to the Great Spirit - God - his comforter, He would comfort him.

Doc sought comfort right now. Prince had seen him leaving the town and decided to follow him, and saw how he was dressed. Although feeling much better with her conversation with Sally and Flo, she was still aggravated by his snubbing of her this morning. But seeing Doc's despondent look concerned her. She stealthily made herself scarce behind a huge boulder flanked by a saguaro cactus and watched. That was the beauty about being the type of car she was; Lambos were so silent that even their tires couldn't be heard rolling over rocks, dirt, or grass. A sneaky gift indeed.

There was a small and rather dangerous winding road that went all the way up to the top of Willy's Butte flattened rock slab, and Doc made it to the top before he stopped, almost right on the edge. Overlooking the plateau below, he drew in a deep breath as if meditating. The setting sun caused his figure to become a dark sillouhette against the orange sky, and the feathers dangling from the sides of his head added to the effect.

"Yah, yah, HEY-eyyy, Loi-iiiiiii, YA-ahhh, YA-ahhhYA-ahhh yah, yah-aaaaahhhh, HEY-eyyyy." He began to bay in the unmistakeable chanting of Native American Pow Wow. It was so ethereal, his voice. His vocals echoed in a bewail of lament-like howls, his front wheels outstretching in front of him as if beseeching on some presence to make itself known to him. Prince was blown away as Doc kept his eyes shut, hitting a range of high-pitched falsettos deep in his throat before the timbre of his tone dropped to a lower level. She had always found other cultures fascinating, and she didn't know that Doc was American Indian.

It was impossible to tell a car's roots from looks alone, but many could be ethnically distinguished by their voices like Flo and Luigi. Doc always had some sort of "countrified" accent like he might have come from the deep south, or possibly up north, but she didn't know that he was a Native. She only guessed this because it was highly unusual for non-Native Americans to chant like this. Those who weren't simply didn't do it. For them to do so was viewed as insulting to all native-born tribes, the pow wow song and chants were sacred to all Nations. Outsiders could participate in the pow wow rituals as long as they took the roles very seriously. These were not performances done in "costumes". They came from the soul of the chanter, a time-held ritual of calling on The Protector, it was not a "show".

Doc threw every part of his body into the singing, going rigid as he stretched his front half out over the cliff, almost like he was pleading to the clouds in the sky. Not that Prince could tell the difference, as it all sounded similar, but he was chanting in a universal tone used by all the tribes which consisted of largely sounds. Language wise he spoke both Uto-Aztecan and Celtic, both very scarce dialects. So scarce, that neither was a documented language now. Very few were left who could interpret or talk either, Doc being one of those handful. He had learned both as a small child and perfected both as a hobby growing up.

He learned both primarily to honor his parents. Doc was born in Detroit, Michigan to an Irish-bred mother and a Comanche Indian father. He never knew his mother. But he grew up with a proud and loving father who died when he was just twenty years old. His dad, the Comanche who eventually pulled out of poverty and owned a thriving reopened taylor shop in downtown Detroit, now able to raise his son in a stable middle-income environment. And watched him grow into the young man-racer he became so proud of. Proud to be an American of course he was but prouder to be Comanche he'd always tell Doc.

x

Considered as some of the fiercest fighters in history like the Pawnee, The Comanche were famed for their frightening battle cries and archery. They were also renown for their distinctive war paint. Comanche warriors often painted their fronts with black and white stripes. Some of them would have one half of their faces white and the other side black. Others bore a black or white stripe straight across their windshields with white or black dots or other markings. But their headgear truly gave them away; men and teenage boys who became battle-ready wore a bison's head hide cap—with the horns—with pieces of wooly hide hanging in flaps on either sides of their faces. Along with this various feathers were pinned to them.

The Comanche were the only native warriors to don these legendary "buffalo" caps and that, along with their face paint was what marked them as Comanche. Even their Chiefs' war bonnets stood out. They looked like the war bonnets of any other Plains Indian chief, however theirs had an extra addition—buffalo horns and a flap of the hide near the leader's eyes, the rest consisted of the typical style of war bonnets; beaded patterns, deerskin and woven patterns, and of course eagle/hawk feathers. These were powerful birds revered by all native peoples from the Hopi to the Lakota alike. The Comanche were no exception. Like all chiefs, a Comanche War Chief's headdress was very long, draping in almost a train behind him while his eldest son, or whoever was destined to take his place wore one that was much shorter. But what made him a Comanche chief were the trade mark buffalo horns. A horn protruding from each side of his war bonnet marked him as Comanche. To this day they continued the tradition of making their headdresses with horns. It wasn't limited to Chief's headdresses; the headdresses of Comanche spirit dancers and medicine men (shamans) also bore feather-adorned horns.

A relatively peaceful folk, the Comanche generally didn't attack unless provoked but when they did they went down in history as incredibly brave, fearless and terrifying in their assaults. They unleashed hell on the U.S. Calvary during the Comanche Wars, in which the government forcibly attempted to place them on reservations. They had managed to subdue all the other tribes; the Comanche were the last left "un-reserved". The Comanche Wars lasted eleven years and was finally lost to the United States, but not before the Comanche inflicted devastating damage to them.

Under Raging Shadow they won seventeen battles in a row, demoralizing U.S. forces to the point where they refused to fight them for a time. Under him Comanche warriors totaled nearly 600,000 thousand strong. An expert at the rifle and gun, Raging Shadow's eyes blazed with hatred for the Americans. To him, Europeans, as he called them, were the greatest evil he had ever seen. There was only one outsider he had any affection for and that was for a visiting English prince who became fascinated by Indian culture. He was initially tolerated but quickly grew on the suspicious War Chief, who eventually considered him a friend. That "royal man", a chief in his own right, even became like them, fighting in two of the Comanche battles against U.S. forces. This foreigner eventually became an anointed Comanche warrior and was given the name of Tohca Pui Akecheta, meaning "Blue Eyed Warrior". Extremely rare for an outsider to be given a native name and it was considered a huge honor. This foreign male who was a jewel smith as a hobby was a noble fighter in battle, and returned to his land of "Britian", he heard, to eventually rule his people. He was the only moderner to earn the Comanche's respect and he wasn't even an American to boot.

Raging Shadow led a united front against them before succumbing to illness and passing. But he was hailed a hero by not only his kind, but all American Indian tribes. They all knew his story. To this day Raging Shadow's legacy remained a celebrated part of American culture, told in vivid detail in history books. In his full headdress, deerskin and war paint he was magnificently terrifying charging into a fight. Even the American soldiers had a deep respect for him. With new firepower and tactics, the government retaliated after his death and descimated Comanche forces. Entire villages were wiped out in some places, including females and children.

The government gave them two choices: be moved to a Reservation or be killed. By this point the remaining Comanche had selected a true chief to oversee all of them: Raging Shadow's grandson. Brilliant military strategist like his grandfather, but he was also a realist. The Comanche had dwindled to a pathetic seven thousand. Dangerously low levels… as a culture they were on the verge of dying off. Even their former enemies, the Pawnee Nation, wisely advised the Comanche it was in their best interest to accept the New Way so that they might at least live on. The fiercest among them understood that all native peoples had reached a crossroads of forced adaptation, no matter their affiliation. The Government was simply too powerful.

Still the Comanche stubbornly resisted. They were slowly being broken in their spirit despite remaining fiercely brave in battle. Even the Americans had to admire their tenacity. Many who fought in the Comanche Wars were Civil War veterans, and wrote in their diaries how bravely the Comanche fought even in the face of certain defeat, determined to remain free of integration. To the United States, the Comanche were like very insolent children rebelling against their parents: them. They were barbarians who needed to be brought into the industrial era with other Americans. Comanche Warriors were expected to die for the cause. But now even their women and children were being slaughtered. That's how serious Americans were about their intention to tame the Comanche. Females and little ones did not deserve to face the brutality of war, and to their credit most American soldiers didn't engage in such sordid acts. But there were those who did and saw nothing wrong with it, plus the Government didn't care about that in those days. It was determined to tame the Comanche into "civilization", down to the last male, female, and child.

If push came to shove, it would wipe the Comanche out completely as a people to get its point across. At the very least kill off all able-bodied males then breed them out of existence by forcibly taking their women. Any female, adult or teenage girl deemed fertile would be fair game for forced marriage and rape to American soldiers. Turned into baby-making machines. No matter which route the U.S. Government took, the Comanche would be completely wiped out.

For Tonto, this was unacceptable. More of a peace maker than a warrior, he saw the potential demise of his people for attempting to continue the conflict, and pleaded for the Comanche to accept reservation life. Facing extinction, the Comanche accepted his advice and reluctantly allowed themselves to become "Europeanized". Like the rest of the tribes, like even their enemies such as the Pawnee and Blackfoot. Tonto Spirit Warrior was no less admired than his grandfather was; the Comanche credited him for literally saving them all from certain annihilation. Too small in number now, they had been beaten into submission and became the last Indians to accept the U.S. Government's proposal. Gone were the bison hunts and living on the open plains in tee pees as their once-open range was claimed as federal land.

Tonto realized the Comanche could become modernized like other Americans and still keep their culture intact, and he was right. He saw into the future but he was not disheartened by what he saw. Their life as a free-roaming plains people was over; he accepted it. Nonetheless he remained a very proud male. The Comanche bounced back in numbers and discovered that reservation life was not all that hard.

Many chose to live in cities and towns; they didn't "have" to be confined to government-designated areas. They integrated well into society like everyone else, wearing their attire, learning fluent English, gave their children English first names. They entered professions that made them highly productive to American society. They were Americans! But like all Natives, they received free schooling, including college grants, and free health care, simply for being native-born. The government owed them that at least. There were some two million vehicles living today who were considered full-blooded Comanche, and they were extremely proud to be so. They were after all, the very last ones to submit to "The Man". They did it, not out of fear of the unknown or defeat but to preserve their kind before they died out.

Even "Reserved", they remained defiant and it showed in their Pow Wows. Many of them kept their mystic ways while many others embraced Christianity like Doc's father did. But even if God-fearing, they never forgot where they came from and honored their ancestors. The "Comanche way" as they gleefully put it today. They produced at least four famous Chiefs, two of which Doc Hudson descended from. One was the temporary War Chief named Raging Shadow during the 1878 Comanche Wars. The other was Tonto Spirit Warrior in 1889 who became the very first true Comanche chief of the entire Comanche Nation which had now officially united as a tribe.

The grandson of Raging Shadow, Tonto Spirit Warrior was Doc's great-great grandfather, and he had in his possession the splendid hubcap his grandfather Raging Shadow had been given by England's Prince York. Hudson I's people were found mainly across Oklahoma, New Mexico and Texas. They made their way as far north as Minnesota. It was widely believed that the Commanche originated in Texas but no one knew for certain, not even the Comanche themselves. They were however a plains Indian tribe much like the Sioux were. Like all Plains Indians, they were a nomadic group, constantly on the move with the changing seasons. But the Comanche didn't officially become a united tribe until the late 1800s under the leadership of a true Chief when they were officially registered as a native peoples by the U.S. government.

During the eighteenth century and most of the nineteenth, Comanche societies were governed by groups of elders in each clan and they were the only native peoples with such a hierarchy. In the colonial/wild west days the Comanche weren't actually a "tribe" like other native groups. Instead they roved in bands fiercely independent even of each other. Some bands were large consisting of several hundred up to a thousand individuals while other bands consisted of a few dozen souls. In times of war, whether against other tribes or the U.S. Government, the Comanche all united as one massive unit, and it was only at this time that they selected a "Chief".

The warrior picked was viewed as a real Chief, flowing head dress and all but he was officially known as a War Chief. He was the one who led the entire Comanche force against whomever was the enemy of that time like Raging Shadow did. Depending on the nature of conflict the Comanche would ally themselves with other tribes to fight a common enemy. In any event, once the battles and wars were over the War Chief voluntarily relinquished his position and simply returned to his clan on the plains, with the rest of the Comanche returning to their respective bands as well.

Doc had quite a fascinating family tree and was damn proud of it. He had every right to be. He could at least claim to be half-Comanche. Handsome lad his sire was. No wonder his mother fell for him that day in 1927. It was his father's heritage who spoke Uto-Aztecan. His mother who died while birthing him, he learned was a Celt, in particular Irish-born. A Dublin, Ireland native, she immigrated to America when she was small and proudly declared herself American but never forgot her Celtic roots.

Doc was fiercely proud of both sides of his family tree. He claimed to be neither full-blooded Irish nor Comanche because he couldn't. He was a mixture of both, was honored to be of both, and more importantly, he was American first and foremost. He was born in Michigan and raised in Detroit, but learned all that he could about the heritages of his parents. This, what Doc did now, reflected the pride of his half-Indian ties. Sometimes, he came to this rock and sang in Celtic, his voice howling in a pleasant European-like tone. Other times, he just sat and took in the beauty of nature. Few people knew that Doc was Irish-Comanche by blood. He seldom revealed this part of him, he seldom felt the need to. He was by no means ashamed to. He was all the way proud of his lineage, he was just not the type to declare it to the world.

x

Doc found this singing to be soothing to him when something was on his mind. It was breathtaking to watch him, and the Lamborghini tried to go back in time for a moment to picture a great Indian chief, a god-like wagon in a full eagle feather headdress and all, standing where Doc was, chanting at the sky like Doc was doing. His singing died when he opened his eyes and spotted Prince watching him. She looked sheepishly at him.

"I hope I wasn't disturbing you." She pulled out.

"No, not at all." Doc met her halfway.

"So, I didn't know you had Ind... Native American in you." She said quietly quick to correct herself with the more politically correct terminology.

"You can say 'Indian'. That term doesn't offend me like it does some others. Yes, I am partially that is. The other half of me is of Irish stock. My 'siren' from Ireland. To the gears sweetheart." Doc assured her.

"Irish and Native. A beautiful mixture indeed. Now that I look at you... you do look somewhat Irish'y-slash-other. May I ask what kind of Indian? Or what tribe rather?" Prince was eager to know all about this new page of Doc's life.

"Comanche on my old man's side," Doc stated rather proudly as he and Prince started off down the butte. Then he looked a bit sad. "Prince, about our conversation early, please don't think..."

"Hey, I'm not. I respect what you said, and I'm quite flattered that you find me worth the wait. And I'm sorry about my snippy attitude about it. I was wrong." Prince interrupted him before he could finish.

"No, you had every right to be indignant. And I could have worded what I said better." he told her. "But I gotta tell you, you do have that effect on men. You're having that effect on me. Like every other male you've encountered. When I look at you I want to do things. Maybe it IS because of what you simply are, maybe it's just the fact that you are so beautiful in the eyes. Maybe it's just personality or a mixture of all three. I just know that you do and it was meant as a compliment. I never meant to degrade you with those words."

"I understand." she just had to accept this as a reality.

"Well, since we're on the topic of heritage and all, I'm curious to know what your ancestry might be."

"Both sets of my great-great, GREAT grandparents came here from Scotland. Late 1800s. The neighborhood I grew up in was largely Scottish... hyphenated-American if you will."

She had a warm reminiscing of flipping through the family photo album of black and whites, and of current family members back home. She understood that she had many relatives living in Scotland now and hoped one day to meet them. To be sure her maidename was of Scots Highlander origin. She remembered watching The Scottish Bagpipe/Drum Bands playing down Las Vegas boulevards in their plaid kilt attire, how proudly they marched and how regal she felt. She was too young to recall but supposedly her parents took her to one such parade when she was four or five before they went batshit religious. She could never get enough of listening to those bagpipes. Naturally "Braveheart" remained one of her favorite films.

There was no mistaking she was righteously proud to be of Scottish descent. And it tickled Lightning pink to know that Prince was of Scottish descent just like him. But "McQueen" was a common Irish last name as well. Like Prince Lightning dug the whining sound of bagpipes. Both he and Prince often got on their "Scottish" soapbox to brag. But Doc and Mr. Fillmore were both cool. The Scots and Irish had always had a fondness of each other. So just like Doc - and Lightning - and Fillmore, Prince had a bit of Celtic in her too as the Scots, like the Irish were viewed as Celts. It was no secret that the Celts rocked. She began to address him in a hint of preaspiration.

"Whateffer d'you mean, Sur Doc Hudson? I mean, affter-rr all, m' last name is MacLeod. Very Scottish indeed, aye?" Her voice took on a perfect Highland English accent as if she really came from Scotland. Doc was charmed by the elegance of it as he narrowed in on her.

"It is." he answered. She lit up, pulled up, planted a kiss on his grill and backed away, watching his bar-like lips turn upwards. He was relieved.

"That's not exactly a kiss." he growled teasingly as he advanced forward, forcing her into a real deep kiss. She giggled between them.

Back at the town:

"We thought you might like this." Prince presented the tabloid back at the garage.

"Kidnapped by aliens. Lovely."

Doc indeed got a kick out of the tabloid heading. He understood that it was the norm of celebrity life, even though he wasn't exactly a big name A-list actor, the fact that he was a racing legend was enough to make him honorably placed on the front cover of America's best tabloid: The Scallop. He was an A-list former racer and since resurfacing he had become one of America's most endearing public faces. So tabloids would target him, yes.

The Scallop was a harmless newspaper; few stars payed attention to it yet unbelievably, much of the public enjoyed it. Most sound minds knew that most of the stuff in the Scallop was hardly true, it was purely for reading entertainment. And honestly it did make for some good reading. An old saying went in show business: any publicity was better than no publicity.

Prince left to help out Flo. She now had two more permanent helpers; Flo was so impressed by the work the twins did when they volunteered their help in cleaning up the café that she offered both full-time waitress positions. The girls wanted to work for free; they didn't feel right taking money from some one they saw as a mother figure. But Flo wasn't having it; she didn't believe in having people work for her for free. In any case, the twins agreed to join Flo's small workforce of helpers.

Doc too got some help, a new medical resident arrived, at his request to Radiator Springs. It turned out that the red Ferrari that Lightning McQueen referred to Luigi's shop was a doctor. Although much younger, he had almost as much experience as Doc, and like Doc, was skilled at almost everything. That Ferrari's name was Dr. Michael Schumacher, same field as Doc. He was from Munich, Germany but had joint American citizenship and had already been living in the states for several years.

He was now Doc's fellow helper, not an assistant but held the same degree of respect and workload. Doc was not his supervisor but his equal partner; the two ran Doc's clinic together. In fact, it was no longer just Doc's clinic; it had been changed to read aptly the following: "H. Spirit Warrior, M.D/ M. Schumacher, M.D. General Practice"

Doc was happy for the help because he was being overwhelmed. The town has gotten too big for just one medic to handle everything. And anyway Michael was as well-loved and welcomed as Doc was. The super-sports car surgeon fell in love with Radiator Springs. He was cute, young and friendly. Fluent in three langueges. Aside from his native German he also spoke English and Italian very well. Radiator Springs now added one more resident.

Sarge especially took a liking to Michael right off the bat and the two quickly developed a friendship.