The armored warrior turned the corner and beheld the mountains of gold coins and jewelry stretching high to the cavern ceiling a hundred feet above. Cautiously, with his magic sword drawn, he approached the bounty and carefully lifted a gold ring from the mound. Suddenly, the cavern shook and a golden avalanche showered down, revealing Draco Sanguinarius, the legendary bloodthirsty, fire-breathing, acid-spitting two-headed dragon. A voice screamed at Bart the Brave to put the ring on his finger.
Then the doorbell rang, and my concentration slipped for less than a nanosecond. In horror and disgust, I watched the dragon chomp down and spit out a heap of Bart bones.
Six weeks! It had taken six weeks to reach that level, only to be blown away by an unexpected and unwelcome intruder. If it had been Jehovah's Witnesses wishing to pray together for our souls, I would have claimed theirs.
"What do you want?" I yelled. In front of me stood the best-looking set of body armor I had seen in a long time, padded in all the right places. The mystery woman pushed passed me. She removed her helmet and her jet-black, silken hair fell to its full length, settling about her shoulders, brushing against her pale cheeks. Her large green eyes commanded my attention.
"You're Jack Hammer, right?" she asked.
"Jack Hammond," I corrected her, managing to not trip on my tongue. "'Jack Hammer' only exists in the arena. Who are you? And how did you find out where I live?"
"I'm Wendy Peterson, head of marketing for Rigdewood Technologies Inc. You're on our mailing list. We want to hire you."
She caught me off-guard. I had received job offers and requests for help before, but usually I'm approached at the arena. No one had ever come straight to my front door before. Nevertheless, this beautiful stranger intrigued me. "Why don't we step inside? Have a seat and I'll get some coffee."
When I returned I found that she had lowered the shades and drawn the curtains. "This visit is unofficial. No one knows that I am here. We need help."
"Ridgewood Tech needs help? A company that develops and manufactures state-of-the-art weapons and security systems? Off the record?"
I set the tray on the coffee table. Her hand nervously shook as she reached for her cup, but she steadied it before anything spilled on the carpet. A sip of coffee seemed to calm her down.
"If you will allow me to explain. Ridgewood Tech will unveil its new product for the year tomorrow. I'm afraid I can't go into detail about it. Everything on this has been kept under wraps, even the going-public date was only released two weeks ago. Last week, we received a threat that our headquarters will be attacked if we don't abandon our plans by this afternoon at five." She glanced at her watch. "That's less than seven hours away."
I couldn't decide if this was bogus. She seemed sincere, but her story was harder to swallow than my coffee -- I had to get a new perculator. "I'm sure your company has received its share of threats before. Every time something new hits the market, the anti-duellist nuts come out in droves. Do you have any reason to believe this is serious?"
"The threat was from EDSEL/NJ. They are in the process of opening a new office in Ridgewood just five miles away from our offices. This would be a great opportunity for them to establish themselves. And, of course, they have tremendous resources to carry out such a threat. But the police believe that they're a 'dove' chapter and aren't taking the threat seriously. We're not so sure, and due to the nature of our new product, we have reason for caution."
Militant or not, EDSEL was never good news. "And you want me to find out if they are hawks or doves, right?"
"No." She put down her cup and leaned forward. "I want you to prevent the attack."
I nearly spat coffee all over my carpet. I had never gone up against anyone from EDSEL and never seriously entertained the notion of doing so. Now a strange woman was sitting in my living room asking me to do just that. "Surely you realize that if there is a plot against you, I could not stop it. I appreciate the compliment, but I wouldn't survive against EDSEL terrorists."
Her eyes glared and penetrated deep within me. "I've found out that you drive with a group called the Road Wolves. They would be a sufficient force to handle the job."
The lady had done her homework. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Ms. Peterson. The Road Wolves were a vigilante group that dissolved several years ago. Although they had noble intentions, their actions were still illegal. The authorities forced them to disband if I remember correctly. They don't exist."
Her eyes neither blinked nor wavered. "Then they would be perfect for an offer that never took place." She stood up before me and slowly unzipped her body armor. My first impulse was to follow the motion of her hand with my eyes but they were locked with hers. From an inside pocket, she withdrew a manila envelope and threw it on the coffee table. I could guess its contents.
"No contracts. No questions." Just a lot of cash, old, unmarked, non-sequential.
She zipped her armor, grabbed her helmet, and started to leave before I had a chance to object. I caught her before she could unlock the door. When she turned to face me, I could almost see her eyes burning through her faceplate.
"You have an excellent reputation, Mr. Hammond. I'm certain that we can trust you." She threw the bolt and opened the door. "Someone will be in touch." That said, she ducked out the door before I had a chance to stop her. I started after her but stopped short.
After locking the door again, I went back into the living room and spilled the contents of the manila envelope onto the coffee table. The bills were old, all right. They also had large numbers on them. Lots of large numbers.
I was at Specs' house 30 minutes later. Until last year, Specs was Bob "T-Stop" Steele, up-and-coming duellist, notorious for his inclination for making difficult, but fanciful, manuevers. "T-Stop" would pull the tightest of tight bends to shake a tailgater, who would go on to crash into an obstacle. Then one day, he misjudged the room he had and tight bended into the arena wall. The crash cost him prestige, corporate endorsements, and his shot at the championship. Worse, he lost a little of the combat reflexes that allowed him to pull the dangerous stunts that were the linchpin of his duelling career.
Until then, vanity had prevented him from getting eyeglasses. The crash finally convinced him that his vision was bad enough to warrant them. Of course, given Bob's flair for overdoing everything, he had about 50 pairs custom made. Some simple, some elaborate. They became part of the image, and he became "Specs" to everyone.
Bob retired from the pro-autoduelling circuit and devoted his time to his hobby, computer programming and hacking. Using his winnings, he bought an elaborate electronic setup bigger than most small businesses had and almost as big as some larger ones.
I told him about the mysterious Wendy Peterson.
"Let's see what we can find out." He took off his regular eyeglasses, which sported frames made from gold-plated 9mm shell casings, and put on his computer visor. Specs had designed the visor by hooking the wiring from a pair of cybernetic goggles to a computer mouse, producing a vision-driven system. Very quick and efficient.
His configuration included about 40 gigs of memory, CD-ROMs of each of the three leading market formats, a cubic drive, and a 614 Kbaud modem. Succinctly stated, Specs was hooked into everything. He maintained a huge library of disks, cubes, cartridges, and even a few old-style reel tapes and floppies, filling four bookcases and several file cabinets. He held onto almost every tidbit of information he got his hands on.
In a matter of seconds, he was knocking on the back door of Ridgewood Technologies Inc.
"This may take a while. RTI's got serious system defenses. I only discovered the back door two months ago, and I haven't had a chance to explore it."
With only six hours to go, I was more than anxious to find out anything about the threat or the new product that caused the unrest. Still, I remained patient, though edgy, while menus, submenus, options, and data flipped by, screen after screen. Specs whizzed through for almost five minutes, look, click, look, click. Data buffers recorded everything.
When the modem released a high-pitched shriek, Specs remained calm even as I jumped out of my skin. He looked at the box at the lower left of the screen and double-clicked it. The screen flashed several colors before going blank.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Counter measures and counter-counter measures. They found out I was there, but instead of cutting me off, they were backtracking the lines to my machine."
"You mean they're trying to find where you live?"
"More than that. You know the saying: the best defense is a good offense. Ridgewood tried to turn the tables on me. When they discovered I had broken in, they tried to break back, to plant viruses or just wipe the disks." Specs smiled and patted the modem. "Luckily, my defenses are a little better than theirs. I pulled out and severed all the connections before they could find their way."
Several quick scans of the buffered data revealed nothing of interest. So much for searching by key words and phrases.
"Search for 'Peterson,'" I suggested. Another dead end. There was nothing with her name attached.
"I'll have to sift through this a page at a time." Specs removed the special goggles and put on another pair from his collection. This set had big black frames with red racing stripes running down the arms. "There's a couple of hours worth of scanning here."
"Do what you can," I said. "I have to call the others."
Out of the few I could reach, only four were available. That meant if I could lure Specs away from his computer, there would be six of us to stop an EDSEL army. What their army consisted of was anybody's guess. I told the others to rendezvous outside the Ridgewood Tech building at four. We'd play it by ear. There was no other way to play it.
I sat down next to Specs. "How are we doing?"
"Not good. Nothing of any interest."
I wasn't happy. He'd been wading through those files for nearly an hour. "No mention of the threats? Or the new systems? Nothing?"
"Well, I went through all the recent e-mail -- I gave myself SUPERUSER rights so I could access it all -- and no one's talking about it. Unless it's ultra-secret, someone's usually stupid enough to leave a memo laying around. I've found some shopping lists, betting pools, travel itineraries, and several video games, but not much else."
Hmmm. Nothing there? Ultra-secret? How could EDSEL know about the new system? They couldn't unless they had computer hackers better than Specs or ...
"A plant!" I yelled out, startling Specs. "It's the only explanation. EDSEL has somebody on the inside." I paced the floor, reviewing what few facts we had. "Okay, we know it's somebody high up, high enough to be privy to information on the new system."
"And," Specs cut in, "he most likely would have been hired recently. Otherwise, something would have happened already."
I stopped pacing and jumped into the chair next to Specs. "Ridgewood Tech's a highly visible company. Can you find out all of their recent high-profile hirees?"
Spec's opened a desk drawer and flipped through the cubes until he found one marked "Periodicals". He dropped this one into the cubic drive. A moment later an index popped up on the screen. Dancing his fingers across the keyboard, he referenced Ridgewood Tech and found a listing for an article published in Autoduel Business Weekly three months ago.
Pushing himself away from the desk, he wheeled across the floor toward the bookcases. A minute later, he wheeled back with that issue of ABW in his hand. I grabbed it and flipped the pages looking for the article.
On page 139, I struck pay dirt. A new vice-president had been hired just before the end of the first-quarter office party, and they had taken that opportunity to showcase him. Roland Edwards, an NYU grad with an MIT doctorate. He was several inches shorter than the co-workers he was pictured with and looked about mid-40s. Not your average terrorist. But then, EDSEL is hardly average.
I glanced at my watch. "Ms. Peterson should have had enough time to return to her office. I'll call her office and tip her off. It'll save us a lot of bruises this afternoon if we can take this guy down now."
Specs called up his Phone Directory directory, and selected the Ridgewood White Pages, not that any of his phone listings were on paper of any color. "One, two oh one, five five five, three thousand."
The phone started beeping before I could touch any buttons. It had a voice-activated dialer that placed the call as soon as Specs read off the number.
"Ridgewood Technologies Incorporated," answered the receiver. "Can I help you?"
There was a nagging feeling in the back of my head. I almost hung up. "Ms. Wendy Peterson, please."
"Thank you. One moment, please." The operator put me on hold, giving me an earful of classical music, which ended abruptly. "I'm sorry, sir. There's nobody here by that name." I asked her to double-check, and the result was the same.
"Thank you." I hung up the phone. "She must have given me a phony name in case I tried to get in touch with her. This is supposed to be off the record."
Specs took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Why don't you try asking for her using her office title?"
The weird feeling started crawling around the sides of my head. "That's probably bogus, too. There's got to be a way, though."
Specs picked up the magazine to put it away. "That's it! Give me that article again." Quickly, I scanned the pictures. Pictures that seemed to include every VP and department head in the company. Noticeably absent was Wendy Peterson.
"Don't jump to conclusions," Specs warned. "That could mean anything. Maybe she's camera shy. Maybe she was in the ladies room. Maybe she was home sick..."
"And maybe we're being set up!" I had just about lost it. I grabbed my machine pistol and put in a fresh clip.
"Jack, are you thinking of doing something incredibly stupid? What makes you think this is a setup?"
I grabbed my helmet. "It fits. A maiden in distress shows up mysteriously and wants a duelling group to attack an army of cars heading to a weapons manufacturing company. Suppose this lady were from EDSEL and this 'army' was a convoy making a delivery. Ridgewood Tech loses money and personnel. Our group, at the worst, loses lives, and at best, will be banned from all autoduelling events for life. Not to mention hard labor. Meanwhile, EDSEL comes off smelling rosy because they're not even involved."
"One flaw in that logic. She didn't want 'us.' She wanted the 'Road Wolves.'"
I thought about that for a minute. "Makes no difference. If anyone gets gunned down, they'll make the connection. It'll get traced back to the Driving Tigers, and we'll all be banned."
"So where are you going now?"
"EDSEL/New Jersey's Ridgewood headquarters. I'm going to get some answers." I holstered my machine pistol, knowing that a duellist, especially a pro duellist, walking into an EDSEL office was asking for trouble.
Specs seemed so surprised that his glasses looked like they were going to jump off his face. He started to protest then thought better of it. Reaching into another desk drawer, he pulled out a set of headphones along with a digital transmitter, which he tossed to me. "Use it if we need any private communication. I'll get to Ridgewood early in case you need anything. We're still going, aren't we?"
I realized that I might be following a dead end. Even though I doubted it, there might have been a reasonable answer to this. "Yeah, the deal's still on. Four o'clock, the Ridgewood Tech plant. Rick, Kent, Mongoose, and Torch are on. Transmit layout and highway data directly to their inboard computers." I plugged the transmitter into my helmet. "I'll be in touch." With that, I was out the door.
One nice thing about being a successful duellist is that you can afford to keep a second car. One with a totally different arsenal of weapons and defenses. Plus, you have just enough free time to practice different driving tactics and strategies. The result: there's a whole new person on the road, one that cannot be connected to me. That's important when traveling incognito... or into EDSEL's parking lot.
A truck was parked by the service entrance, and some men were hauling office equipment into the building. One of the boxes had a sticker reading, "Property of EDSEL/NJ". They hadn't even finished unpacking and already they were causing havoc in the area. I grabbed a box and a clipboard and tagged along, looking official.
EDSEL's offices were on the third floor of the complex. The box in my hands was labelled Room 321, so I figured that would be a good place to start my search for my mystery woman. Halfway there, I spotted the elusive Wendy Peterson walking into a private office. I quickly changed direction.
A secretary tried to stop me but failed miserably. "You can't see Ms. Peterson without an appointment." She backed away when I growled at her. People usually do, and that saves bullets.
"What the hell is the big idea!" I yelled when I crashed through the door. She was sitting behind a big desk, with one hand reaching underneath. I quickly pulled out my machine pistol. "Drop it! Put both hands on the desk. Now!"
She complied. "There was nothing to drop. I don't keep a gun in here. I don't believe in violence."
I chuckled at that one. Incredible. The things people say when they're afraid you're going to hurt them.
"I was reaching for the security button. My secretary is probably calling them now. That is, if she's not unconscious... or dead.
"She's fine."
"Good." She stood up and started to approach me. I holstered my gun, knowing I could easily take her hand-to-hand if she tried anything. "In that case, you can tell me what the big idea is of breaking into my office."
She stood her ground, hands on her hips, waiting for an explanation. I couldn't help laughing, unnerving her something terrible.
Quickly, I regained my composure. "For one thing, what's your office doing inside EDSEL's Ridgewood HQ? I could be suspended from AADA just for being here. Hell, my whole team could be banned for entering into a contract with you. I think I'm the one who needs the explanation."
Wendy thought about what to say for several seconds. She stopped staring at me and looked to the floor for an answer, then turned toward the bookcase. This was going to take some time, so I sat down on the couch. Just when I was getting comfortable, the door to the outer office burst open, and, a split-second later, three security guards jumped into the room, assault rifles drawn. I put my feet on the coffee table and looked to Wendy.
"Wait outside, please." The guards turned in puzzlement at their boss's order. "Everything is okay." The guards obeyed and left the room, although I was sure that I heard the clumping of heavily armored feet on the other side of the wall behind me. I could imagine their guns pointing at my head through the panelling and plaster.
Taking a seat on the corner of her desk, Wendy stared at the floor and started her story. "There is going to be an assault on RTI tonight, but not by EDSEL. We are being set up to take the blame. We're not aware of anything that will stand up in court, just rumors. But we're just opening this office, and that kind of publicity will shut us down immediately."
Who was setting up whom around here? This was getting confusing, but the pieces clicked. There was no better patsy than EDSEL. You could blame them for blowing up the Hindenburg and sinking the Titanic, and some people would believe it. "So then who is this other group that's supposedly responsible?" I did not want her to think I was giving much credence to her story yet.
She looked me dead in the eye. "Ridgewood Technologies is behind it." Her voice hadn't wavered. She was dead serious.
Removing my feet from the coffee table, I stood up and started for the door. "Goodbye, Ms. Peterson." She reached for my arm, but I pulled it away. "Do you expect me to believe for one minute..." I stared into her eyes, which were pleading me to stay. Sure that I was making a mistake, I sat down again. "Okay, I'm listening."
"They're doing it for the insurance money. Their current project is insured for well over two million dollars. Their plant is covered for a lot more. We haven't been able to find out much, but we know this new project is a major flop. Tests have proved less than satisfactory, and they have committed too much to scrap the project. It will be a huge embarassment to the company, which they probably won't survive."
"That's the insurance company's problem. Why should I care?"
"Because it will hurt us. We're going to get the blame for this act of violence. It has been my intention all along that this would be a 'dove' chapter. But as of five o'clock this afternoon, nobody will ever believe that."
The hardest thing to believe was that I was starting to fall for this. "Why us? Why didn't you get some other EDSEL chapter to help?"
Wendy threw her hands up in disgust. "They all like the idea. They think it'll be good for our reputation. God, how I hate those 'hawk' groups. We're the only doves in the area. We don't have the resources to prevent the attack or the credibilty to deny it."
"I'm sorry," I said as I got up to leave. "This is still your problem. We can't get involved with your organization for any reason, especially not to put a leading weapons manufacturer out of business.
I don't know what I expected. Wendy didn't fly into a rage or anything. Instead, she calmly told me, "Innocent people are going to die. Is that a good enough reason?"
She had stopped me in my tracks. Damn her.
"More than just security personnel. The attack is set for five o'clock. Quitting time. People leaving the compound will get caught up in the invasion. If their forces make it into the building, the lives of everyone working late will be in jeopardy."
"Do you seriously think they would kill their own people?" I guessed her answer before I even finished asking the question.
"There are millions of dollars at stake, perhaps hundreds of millions. Yes, I seriously think that."
That was enough. I was in. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was past four-thirty. "My car's outside. But I don't know if we'll make it."
She smiled and hit the intercom. "Marcy, have Roger warm up the chopper." Marcy acknowledged, and Wendy turned back to me. "Let's go."
An express elevator took us to the roof where a man with a blowtorch had just finished welding a fresh piece of armor onto a 'bird labelled "Dove-1". As we heading toward him, Roger threw the torch and some other tools into the copter then climbed in after them to get it started. We wasted no time boarding and lifting off.
"Any idea what we're looking for?" I asked.
"We'll know when we see it."
The radar was practically useless. There were plenty of blips as we passed over crowded streets and avenues. On top of that, the RTI complex wasn't far from the interstate. It was enough to cause a migraine.
I tapped my helmet radio. "Specs, are you in position?" Wendy and Roger both glanced in my direction and wondered who I was talking to. They were more than a little surprised to hear a voice replying.
"Everyone's here. No sign of invading forces yet. The area has been swept for explosives. None were found. We're switching positions at irregular intervals so RTI security doesn't get nosy. Kent and Torch are on reconn. What's your status?"
Quickly, I filled him in on the situation. "I guess I'll be sitting this one out. I'll keep you posted on what we see."
We weren't far from the complex when we found what we were looking for: a speeding triple-trailer sporting an RTI logo gunning toward home. Oddly, the only visible weaponry was a lone turret on the first trailer, a strange choice for attacking an entire complex.
"It's a bomb!" Wendy yelled.
My ears rang from her exclamation. A kamikaze truck loaded with bombs wasn't very original. What it was, however, was very lethal.
But would someone willingly give their life for this scheme? Gold Cross wouldn't be able to verify the death -- there won't be anything left to ID. Would RTI have his clone activated? They'd save a lot of money and trouble leaving him dead.
As we flew closer, I was able to make up the outlines of two blow-away hatches. The driver and gunner were planning to escape via ejection seat.
"Okay, so let's take him out and get this thing over with before someone spots us."
"No weapons, Jack."
I was dumbfounded. "You're kidding. Look, I know you're against violence, but this guy's about two minutes from detonation. What do you want to do? Stop and reason with him?"
Wendy pointed to the control panel, which was loaded with dials and gauges, but missing several important switches I had expected to see. "Look's like we'll have to. I just told you: we have no weapons."
There was no time to argue -- either with Wendy or the kamikazes. I tapped the helm-com again. "Red alert! We got a highway freight train coming down the main road!"
"We're already on him," said Kent.
"Shoot his tires. Hammer into him and keep him off-balance. Anything to slow that monstrosity down." Actually, the thing was picking up speed even as Kent and Torch pounded away. Strangely, the rig didn't bother to return fire. Either the guns were fake or the crew didn't perceive us as a threat. Or, maybe they were just very determined to deliver their payload.
An idea suddenly hit me. Kent had a killer eye and now was a good time to put it to use. "Kent, see if you can move in close and shoot the trailers loose. Torch, cover him. We'll fly around and distract them."
Roger didn't seem too keen on the idea, but Wendy gave him a nervous go-ahead to buzz the truck. We found out the turret gun wasn't fake when a blast cannon shell exploded off our left side. Roger took us up fast.
It seemed their gunner was concentrating on us, but because of a flat turret, he couldn't fire on us unless we flew low.
Kent was in position and ready to shine his laser on the hitch between trailers one and two. Once loose, they would probably crash into something, but at least they wouldn't explode. Then, I saw the cab's front wheels turn. The cab was switching to Kent's lane, and the trailer were about to snap in behind it, knocking him off the road.
Kent swerved out of the way in barely enough time, spinning out in Torch's path. Torch jammed his brakes and swerved around him. They were both okay, but they were out of the fight.
The trailers shook from the force of the sudden lane change, so much so that the driver reduced speed to avoid flipping over. This gave us a little more time, but we didn't have a plan.
My mind raced feverishly, and I looked about the 'copter for ideas. My eyes rested on the tool kit Roger had been using. "Fly over them."
"Are you crazy?" Roger balked.
"They can't fire straight up. Now, fly over them." He finally agreed and brought us directly above our target. I grabbed a hammer, a wrench and the blowtorch from the box. "I'm getting out here. Wish me luck."
Roger was about to repeat his last question but decided not to bother. Wendy simply wished me luck. Seconds later, I had jumped down on the turret.
Quickly, I shoved the wrench into the blast cannon's barrel and whacked it once with the hammer to wedge it in good. Immediately, I made my way to the cab and went to work with the blowtorch, welding the blowaway hatch. That got their attention.
Within a second, the gunner was climbing out his window with an Uzi pointing in my general direction. Before he could aim it, I turned the torch on it. He screamed, and the Uzi flew into the wind.
Big-and-ugly clambered up to the cab roof. I swung the blowtorch at him, but he ducked it. He grabbed my wrist and knocked the torch from my grip. It fell to the street. I was in trouble and very much out of time.
"Don't try it, pal," I told him. "The chopper pilot has you covered. Put your hands up."
He stared a moment thinking it over but didn't release me. When I waved to Wendy, he immediately let go, at which point I kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, and I sat on him on top of the hatch.
Our driver hadn't slowed down yet even though his escape route was blocked. Maybe he figured he could shake us before he ejected. RTI's main gate was less than a hundred yards away. The exit lanes were filled with workers going home for the weekend. The entry lanes were empty. I tapped the transmitter. "Specs, put a wall of cars in front of this guy."
"One wall coming up."
Some things you never forget. With a screech of tires, Specs jumped in front of the outbound traffic and pulled a magnificent T-stop. Just like the old days. Rick and Mongoose were right behind him, further fouling up traffic. Brakes squealed and cars swerved and scattered all over the road. A wall of cars. And one helicopter.
Realizing that he had no place to go, the driver stopped the rig. Mongoose ripped a hole in the front left tire with Vulcan slugs. Rick shot up the right one.
There was no time to enjoy the victory, though. Sirens started ringing out from just about everywhere.
"Scatter!" I yelled, needlessly. The Road Wolves were already driving off, blending in with the crowd and driving past police and RTI security trikes. I ran to the chopper, and Roger took off immediately.
"I'm glad you joined us for the ride back," Wendy said as I buckled myself in.
I shrugged. "My car's parked at your office."
"You did a great job. And you didn't shoot anybody. Maybe we can work together some time. I can make a dove out of you yet."
"I doubt it. I'll be doing plenty of shooting tomorrow." I looked at Wendy and smiled. "Saturday night is the night for duelling."
She smiled back. "Well, then I guess we'll be seeing each other again." Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a flyer and handed it to me. It read, "STOP THE INANE VIOLENCE!"
"I'll be picketing out front."
Return to Table of Contents.
Return to Driving Tigers Magazine Home Page.
Send e-mail to the author.