CompuServe Messages

The man from the motorcycle reached down and grabbed my shirtfront, his fist like a ham hock, his face an angry mass of shifting emotion. As he lifted me up, the pint flask of Jamerson's slid from my torn jacket pocket and shattered on the wet, black pavement; the pathetic sound of the breaking glass and the spreading liquid reminded me how my own life now lay shattered on empty streets of my own creation. I knew why he'd come, and that the VariTyper Retraction ads were only the beginning. "You're the SOB who ripped off my motorcycle, aren't you," he shouted, his breath betraying the garlic and feta quiche he'd been eating. "You duplicated it down to the last detail and built one just like it in your garage." I lifted my good hand, pleading. "No, sir. Honest." "Then you must be the one who made jeans out of blue fabric, just like these I'm wearing!" He shook me violently. "And your name ain't Strauss!" "No…" "You made the leather jacket, then. Like this one. I know somebody stole that idea!" "Not me…" He lifted one eyebrow. "The boots?" "No…" [continued in reply]