"Plagiarists!" Tom Zeril screamed at the television while watching Space Cowguys'ngals. "Those thieves did it to me again!"
    Tom wanted to cry, but he couldn't. It would have been a good trade - deep anger and resentment for a good healthy cry. It was apparent that the writers of Space Cowguys'ngals had access to his manuscript entitled, The Itty Bitty Guy From Peoria. In the show, Elf people went to his universe. That was a major original concept. Never before had anyone postulated such an idea. It wasn't the first time that his brain children were taken from him. That was the way Tom viewed his stories. They were his children. Earlier, on Forward To The Past, another science fiction television series, the characters on the show turned into frozen ponies. That, too, was one of Tom's brain children. And another time, on Space & Time Doesn't Matter, they stole another of his children. Intelligent lollipops.
    "They're not going to get away with this," Tom promised himself.
    Just then, a television commercial interrupted the program. What appeared to be a farmer in his Sunday's best took control over his Television. He sported a foul grin while he spoke. Behind him were volumes of books - as if to say that he really read them. "Hello, my name is Mr. Sueburg. Have you been injured by no fault of your own? Need to file bankruptcy? Dying? We do wills while you wait. Or, maybe you just need a quick divorce? No matter what your legal needs, we here at Sueburg and Associates are dedicated to serving you. Come see us for a free consultation. There are several offices near you. If you are unable to travel, we will visit you at your hospital bed. And just to let you know, we do copyright law."
    "Copyright law. That's it. I have a copyright on my stories," Tom remembered. "I'll go see Mr. Sueburg."

    Tom lived in a two bedroom apartment with three other bachelors. He worked two part time jobs - both of them at fast food restaurants. One was at Burgers Are Us, the other at Burger City. They were chump change jobs, but at least the hours were flexible. It allowed him to do what he really loved to do. To write. It was his favorite pass time. Science fiction was the genre of his choice. Ever since he was eleven, he loved to read and write science fiction. He also enjoyed watching the few science fiction programs that his television could provide. On many occasions, he was tempted to buy cable, but his budget wouldn't allow it. His roomies would have to spring for it if they wanted it. But, that was unlikely. To the young singles, the apartment served more as a flop to crash at between jail sentences than a home.
    With the money that he'd saved over the past few years, he was going to buy a computer. Then, no more would he have to write out his stories in longhand, or with that damm temperamental typewriter. It was old and the shift key never did work. It must have once belonged to e.e. cummings.
    He'd already written three novels and dozens of short stories and novelettes. To be published was his greatest dream. He mailed copies of each story to several publishers. None of them ever replied. No rejections. No acceptances. More than likely, his stories still sit somewhere among the slush piles.
    About a year ago, Tom took a chance by sending a copy of one of his best stories to a Hollywood film producer at GreenSnow Studios. The producer had told him that he liked his work and that if his backers liked what they read, he'd soon be in touch. He never heard anything more from the producer.

    Tom arrived at the law office of Sueburg and Associates just as the secretaries and paralegals were returning from lunch.
"Two more minutes before we reopen, sir," said a self-important secretary.
    Her quick smile really pissed him off. It was blistering hot outside. No shade anywhere near the front door. Unbelievable. What would it hurt to let me sit in the waiting room? "Two more minutes, sir," he mimicked.
When the secretary finally let Tom inside, he was full of sweat.
    "How may I help you?" she asked. Her extreme overbite made her look all the more like a donkey.
    "I'm here to see Mr. Sueburg." Anger was semihidden under his breath.
    "Do you have an appointment?"
    "An appointment!" He restrained himself. "No, I saw your ad on TV, and..."
    "So you're here for a free consultation?" she interrupted.
    "Yeah."
    "Please fill out these forms." She passed a clipboard and pen through the partition opening, then coldly slide the window closed.
    Tom never really understood what function the small sliding window served. Is the air conditioning better in there? Is it to keep out germs? It certainly can't be bulletproof.
    He filled out the forms and returned them to the secretary. That's when he noticed a sign in Mr. Sueburg's waiting room. Don't get mad - Get even.
    "Mr. Sueburg will see you now, sir." She motioned for him to follow her.
    Tom followed her to an office that looked as if a high school football coach decorated it. No luxurious cherry bookshelves and desk here. It was cheap metal shelving and a desk that was probably bought from the local school district during one of their out-with-the-old auctions. But no matter, he never was much for decor.
    When Mr. Sueburg noticed Tom entering his office, he rushed to put out his cigarette. "Georgia skinnys." He held up the extinguished cigarette to show Tom the brand name. "They're not just for women," he added to justify his choice of smoke.
Tom didn't care. He didn't even smoke. For that matter, he didn't care if Mr. Sueburg wanted to smoke women's cigarettes and wear women's dirty undergarments. "Mr. Sueburg, I understand that you do copyright law?"
    "That's correct. Do you have a story that you need to copyright?"
    "No, I already have a copyright."
    "Oh, I was going to say, we're running a special this week. Only one hundred and twenty five dollars. Regular one fifty."
    "One twenty five? That's nuts! Why, I have a bazillion copies of Form TX at home. For twenty bucks, I can do it myself."
    "Uh, Mister..." Mr. Sueburg looked at the form for Tom's name. "…Zeril. What can I do for you?"
    "The producers at GreenSnow have been using my material in many of their science fiction television programs. I never authorized it. I'm not even mentioned in the credits. If they would at least do that, I'd be more than happy to let them use whatever material they saw fit."
    "I rather doubt that any reputable movie or television studio would steal from an unknown author, such as yourself. Writers are always writing about the same thing. It's called community conscience."
    "But they have my manuscript."
    "And just how did these producers gain access to your work?" asked Mr. Sueburg.
    "I sent it to them. I was told by one of the producers that he was very interested in my work. I thought he wanted the movie rights. I didn't expect him to strip mine my work."
    "Did you get a receipt from the individual who accepted your manuscript?"
    Tom hung his head low. "No. I didn't think to." He pulled a copy of his copyright registration from an envelope that he brought with him and handed it to Mr. Sueburg.
    Mr. Sueburg looked it over. "What exactly do you mean when you say that they are using your material?"
    "GreenSnow Studios have been using the original concepts from my story for their lousy, weekly television programs."
    "Just Concepts, not entire stories?"
    "Well, no. But it’s obvious that the stories do take place in my universe."
    "Look, kid, to prove plagiarism, I need more evidence. For one, you should have gotten a dated receipt for your manuscript. Second, the story line would have to be exactly like your work. And they would have to have used the same character names. Sorry, there's nothing I can do for you. I suggest you forget it. Go back home and write some more."
    "So, you're not interested in my case?"
    "I just need more evidence. If your case were to go to trial, GreenSnow's attorneys would eat us alive."
    "But, what they did is wrong! And how am I supposed to sell my story now? Everyone will think that my story is just a rip-off on their crappy TV programs."
    "I couldn't agree with you more. What they did might be unethical, unfortunately it's not illegal."
    Tom could hardly believe his ears. Unethical, but not illegal? What the heck did that mean? Tom lived in a world of his own where the cowboy always rode into the sunset, just like in the old westerns. Good prevailed against evil; love was more powerful than hate. It was difficult for his idealistic and naive mind to process this new lesson in life.
    If it were logical to be unethical but not illegal, then it was also possible to be illegal but not unethical. The more he thought about it, the more he knew it was time to take matters in his own hands.
    On his way outside, he again noticed the sign in Mr. Sueburg's waiting room. Don't get mad - Get even. That time it gave Tom ideas. Get Even. And Get Even I Will.
    On the bus to work, his mind turned out visions of revenge. Most of them, if carried out, would have placed him in prison.
At work, no longer did his creativity keep his mind happy and occupied. The red meat patties on the grill only served to remind him of his raw emotions. Hate. Anger. Revenge. His frayed nerves were tense. He hadn't slept well in weeks. When he pressed the spatula down onto the hamburgers, grease spat all over his hand. The sharp pain didn't phase him in the least. Anything that could take his mind off of how the Hollywood screenwriters had molested his children was welcomed.
    How could they do this to me? Why did they do this to me? Do they do it to others? Probably. From now on, when I see a great television program or movie, no longer will I give credit to the scriptwriters. I will only have to wonder from whom did they steal the material.
    A bomb. A really big bomb. I want them to feel my pain. The pain that they caused me. Plagiarist bastards! They know who they are. I know who they are. I'll get'em!
    I have access to books about how to build bombs. Fred Thomason, my roommate, is an ex-terrorist. He had told me about some of the bombs made today. They're smaller than a briefcase. If I could sneak into GreenSnow Studios with a briefcase...Wait a minute. That idea sucks. Security would catch me before I got to the first gate. Maybe I could parachute in. Yeah, low altitude, just like I did in the army. And I'll do it at night, so no one will see me. AARRGG! That idea is just as dumb. It sounds more like something that would be in some stupid movie. In fact, the whole bomb idea is stupid. I don't want to hurt innocent people. If I did that, the public wouldn't respect me anymore than they do The Unabomber. But how am I supposed to get even? Right now, while I flip burgers for pimply-faced kids, those dream wreckers are enjoying the fruits of my labor. I have to do something, or I'm going to die of a nervous breakdown. Look at me. I can't even keep my hands from shaking.
    Tom had to get even, or the stress would kill him. For the remainder of his shift, he conjured up a plan that would surgically take out those who were responsible, and make them pay for what they were doing to him.

    The next day, Tom went to the flea market to buy a laptop computer. The rows and rows of vendors who were selling everything from kitchen appliances to rusty hand tools didn't interest him. He was on a mission.
    Tom knew what he wanted in a computer. He had educated himself about computers and knew that the minimum requirements for his needs weren't too much to ask. He needed a 486/66 processor, a 500 meg harddrive, 16 megs of RAM and a 14.4 bps modem. The new 400 mhz processors were a lot more animal than he would ever need.
    His eyes caught a booth where a few old 286's were on a table. He asked the vendor, "Got any laptops?"
    "Got any laptops? What kind of a computer store would this be without laptops?" He wore a neckbrace and had about three teeth left in his mouth. He picked out a 286 laptop from a cardboard box. A roaring dinosaur. "Here's a nice little machine. It still works like new. I'll let you have it for two hundred dollars."
    "How about something a little more up-to-date?" asked Tom.
    The vendor went to his van and dug out a black case. He undid the zipper and gingerly slid out a laptop. "Here she is. It's a 166MMX, 2 gig harddrive, 32 megs of RAM, 33.6 bps modem, 24xCD-ROM, and she's got one hell of a software package. All of this for only eight hundred. Cash."
    "Don't you have something in between?"
    The vendor looked across the isle toward his friend who operated a booth adjacent from him.
    "Hey, Charlie," he called. Charlie walked over to him, then the vendor asked, "Do ya still got that 486 laptop?"
    "Yeah, sure. My price is still the same. I want three hundred bucks," Charlie said.
    "Could I take a look at it?" asked Tom.
    "Come on over to my booth and I'll show it to ya."
    Charlie showed the laptop to Tom. It wasn't real fancy. The modem was an old external 2400. It was the kind where you placed the phone receiver onto a cradle. It was perfect. Tom didn't need anything elaborate for what he had planned. He didn't want anything too powerful. Besides, the old phone modem was ideal for making calls from public telephones. He counted out three one hundred dollar bills to Charlie and instructed him, "you never saw me. You don't know me. Got it?"
    "Yeah whatever." Charlie never took his eyes off the money.
    Tom took his new laptop home. The first thing he did was erase everything from the harddrive. He had to set everything back to the factory settings. He wanted to reduce the chances of there being a way to track the laptop back to him.
When Tom installed the necessary software, he registered it under the pseudonym, Laptop Bomber.
    Fred had just come home when he saw Tom playing with his new laptop computer. "Where on Earth did you get that thing?"
    "At the flea market," Tom answered.
    "I thought you were saving your money for a desktop system."
    "My plans have changed," Tom sharply answered.
    "Didn't this thing come with Windows?"
    "Yeah, well, I got rid of it. I won't be needing it. Besides, It took up too much memory."
    "Tom, now be honest with me, will ya? I can smell a plot when there be one brewin'. What are you up to?" asked Fred. His Celtic accent was heavier than usual.
    "You don't want to know. I don't want you to get into trouble. You could get deported if the cops even thought you were involved."
    "It sounds like I could get deported for knowing what I already know. So how about letting me in on it?"
    Tom gave in. "Okay, but if I tell you, you have to help me write a letter."
    "Me? Help you write a letter? That would be a real twist. You're always helping me with my letters."
    "I need your help to write a bomb threat. I'm going to get even with those thieves at GreenSnow Studios." Tom stared out through the window.
    "Oh, well, now you're talking about something that I know all about." Then it dawned on Fred what Tom was asking. "Hey, wait a second. I'm out of that business."
    "I'm not asking you to come out of retirement. All I need is a little help with a letter. I'll take it from there."
    "I guess I could do that much for a friend. I know what those flaming plagiarists have done to you."
    "Good. So, you will help me?"
    "But, of course. Now, tell me, what is your plan?"
    "First, I want to open up a Swiss bank account. Second, send an e-mail message to the executive producer at GreenSnow Studios. In the message, I'll tell him that I've planted a bomb somewhere at the studio and that it's set to go off at random between October first and October thirty-first. Trick or Treat. That means they will lose beau coup money, because they will have to stop production at the studio during the entire month of October. That is of course, unless they pay me five million dollars."
    It didn't take Fred too long to see the problems with Tom's plan. An unintended smile escaped through his lips. "Tom, my friend, your plan needs a little help. Unless you have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to open up a Swiss bank account, you need to alter your plan. Fortunately for you, I can help you to get a fake I.D.. With a fake I.D., you can get a checking account at any bank in the U.S.. The moment the suckers at GreenSnow Studios make the deposit of five million dollars in your account, you can move the money off shore to a bank in Antigua. Once the money is in Antigua, it's yours. Antigua has no treaty with the U.S.. They can't touch you or your money.
    "The bomb is a good touch. As long as I help you describe it in your letter. I think I can come up with a bomb they'll respect."
    "That's why I'm asking for your help, Fred."
    "And, my help, you have."
    "There is one thing that I've always wondered about you," said Tom.
    "Oh, what's that?"
    "Your name, Fred Thomason, not very Irish is it?"
    "That's because I was not born with that name. I cannot tell anyone my birth name. Terrorists do not take kindly to traitors. British intelligence gave me a new identity when I came clean."
    Tom did not ask Fred anything more about his identity.

    The next day, Fred took Tom to see Mike, someone who he'd known since his terrorist days. Mike, too, had given up the terrorist business. Mike helped illegal aliens to obtain their U.S. citizenship. He furnished them with a new identity. He found the names from the obituaries in the newspaper. It sort of extended those peoples lives, was the way Mike justified it.
    "Alright, I've got the I.D. ready," said Mike. He looked at Tom. "From now on, your name is Hector Hernandez. Got it?"
    "Hector Hernandez?" objected Tom. "Take a look at me. I have blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin. Do I look like a Hector Hernandez? I don't even have an accent."
    Mike held open his hands and explained, "That's the only name I've got left. I had a run on fakes last week.
    "Relax, Tom. You only have to be Hector for whatever time it takes to open up a bank account," said Fred.
    "What, you don't think the teller will be just a little bit suspicious?"
    "I'm sorry. It's all I've got," Mike apologized.
    "All right. All right. What choice do I have?"
    "Don't worry, my friend, this will work," assured Fred.

    With the fake I.D. that he bought from Mike, Tom went to The Seventh Bank of Sunnyvilla Florida and opened an account. It was eighty miles from his home in Kissimher. There would be less of a chance for anyone to recognize him in a different town. Nevertheless, doing the deed made him nervous. His conscience bothered him so much that he thought for sure the Hispanic teller was going to figure him out. Please don't start speaking Spanish to me, prayed Tom. When he signed the name on the signature card, he started to sign his real name, but caught himself before it was too late. Then, he forgot how to spell Hernandez, so he faked it by signing the name illegibly. When Tom was finished with his business in the bank, he fled the building. His stomach ached, his head throbbed and his nervous legs could barely carry him. It was the most dishonest thing he'd ever done in his life.
    Oh God, how will I have the strength to do the final deed. Terrorism and extortion is much worse than fraud.

    One of the programs that Tom had installed in his laptop was Javero. It's a free e-mail service that can't be traced, just as long as you give them a bogus name when registering. When Tom opened the account, he used the name, Laptop Bomber. He gave them a somewhat logical but phony address. That way the Javero central computers wouldn't kick back an error message. The telephone number was from a pay phone located two hundred miles away from where he lived. And of course, he chose the user name, laptopbomber@javero.com.
    Now, with all of his weapons in position, Tom was ready to launch his devious assault against GreenSnow Studios. They had it coming.
    Armed with his laptop, Tom rode a bus to Atlanta. When he arrived, the bus terminal was packed with travelers. There were kids making a mess with fruit pies, hobos and backpackers laid against the walls for a few quick zeez, women in nurses uniforms were asking everyone for money, and only the decadent dared to enter the men's room.
    Tom knew that he couldn't send the message from a public telephone at the bus station, because it would clue the feds about his plan, so he walked a few miles down the street where he found a small, inner city breakfast diner. It couldn't have been more perfect. It was a Cozy little place with a dozen seats at the bar and six breakfast tables along the wall. In the back was an antique wooden telephone booth. The door hinges even creaked. It would give him all of the privacy he needed.
    The only two people in the place were a waitress named Ethel and a drunkard who preferred sleeping with his coffee at the bar. Tom ordered his eggs over-easy, ham, toast and black coffee.
    While he waited for his breakfast, he went to the phone booth to import his Javero account so that his computer would dial-up the server in Atlanta. Tom didn't yet want to send the message. He, first, wanted to enjoy his breakfast. He didn't want to give the police a chance to catch up with him.
    When Tom was in the phone booth, he remembered to glue on his fake mustache. He only hoped that the waitress wouldn't notice the sudden addition to his upper lip when he returned to his table. He wasn't too worried about the guy at the bar.
Luckily, the waitress didn't seem to notice the mustache. At least she didn't say anything. Either her memory was failing, or she just didn't care. At any rate, the breakfast hit the spot. It helped to calm Tom and prepare himself for the moment of reckoning. He left a two dollar tip. Not too generous; not too cheap. He didn't want to give the waitress any reason to remember him.
He, again, returned to the phone booth, connected the receiver to the modem and opened the Javero program. His nervous, sweaty, shaky fingers kept hitting the wrong keys on the small laptop keyboard. He entered the e-mail address: executiveproducer@GreenSnow.com. He attached the message which he earlier wrote with Fred's help and prepared himself to send the message. It was short, but to the point.

To: Larry Moe the Executive Producer at GreenSnow Studios
From: The Laptop Bomber
By the time you read this letter, you will have only a few hours to evacuate the entire GreenSnow Studio complex. To be brief, there is a bomb somewhere on your property. I will not disclose its location at this time. I will describe it to you:
Inside of a brown vinyl briefcase, is fifty pounds of plastic explosive. It's a standard gasoline, oil and styrofoam mixture. Some nuts and bolts were added in for good measure. It has been wired so that an electric charge will detonate it. I'm sure that you're wondering "what will set it off"? For one, opening up the briefcase will release a spring that will complete the electrical circuit. Another, is to wait too long to meet my demand. At the beginning of each day, a small microprocessor randomly selects a detonation day and time between October first and October thirty-first. Or at least, between the days which are left on the clock. Oh, and just one more thing: I wouldn't go looking for it, because the proximity sensor will find you first. If it detects any movement within a ten meter radius, it will explode. I hope you haven’t any mice.
    I have only one demand: Five million U.S. dollars is to be deposited into my checking account at The Seventh Bank of Sunnyvilla Florida. Account number :555123456:0123456789123: 1234.
    If you comply to my simple demand, I will send you the information necessary to deactivate the bomb. I warn you. Precious time is ticking away as you read this letter. Unless you enjoy playing Russian Roulette, I strongly advise you to comply with my demand. Noncompliance will result in the loss of property and possibly life.
Happy Halloween
The Laptop Bomber

    All that was left to do was to click on "send mail". How ridiculous, Tom thought to himself. Why was this difficult? They had it coming to them. It was they who drew first blood. He didn't understand why he was balking now. To make it easier, Tom closed his eyes before pressing the button. When he did, he could hear the modem dial-up the Javero central computers.
"This is insane. What am I doing? Should I hit cancel?" Tom debated with himself.
    It didn't take long for the message to be sent. The deed was done. It was too late to change his mind. If he didn't go all the way with his plan, prison was inevitable. He packed away his laptop and left the diner.

    When Tom arrived home, he wasn't sure if returning to his apartment was such a good idea. The police could be waiting for him. So, he went to Shots, a small, local’s bar tucked away from the tourist strip. It wasn't that tourists weren't welcomed as patrons, they just rarely found it. There were no neon lights to attract crowds. The old, unpainted, wooden shack wasn't much to look at, but it was popular among the local alkies.
    Just as Tom entered, he saw Fred sitting at the bar. Fred was baby-sitting a beer and watching television.
    "Tom, you're just in time. Take a seat. Check out what's on." Fred pointed to the TV on the wall. "It's the story of the day. All of the networks are carrying it."
    It was Sally Donell, one of the most famous anchors in the news business. "I'm standing here on top of a hill which over looks GreenSnow Studios in Hollywood California." News, police and military helicopters buzzed the area. "It was earlier reported that a bomb threat was e-mailed to Mr. Larry Moe, the executive producer at the studio. The Los Angeles police and the military have combined their efforts to finding the bomb. At first, it was thought that the threat was only that. But, recent developments have shown otherwise. I have with me now, Police Chief Ron McVeani of the Los Angeles police."
The news camera panned over to McVeani, Sally placed the mic in front of him and she asked, "please tell us something about what you've found."
    "Well, Sally, our bomb squad has indeed found a bomb. It is exactly the type described by the laptop bomber in his e-mailed message. Inside of a brown briefcase, contains approximately fifty pounds of plastic explosive. It's wired to go off sometime between October first and the thirty first."
    "Will the bomb squad soon be able to deactivate it?"
    "They are working on it as we speak. But, I have to tell you, they have their work cut out for them. The bomb has a trip lever which will trigger the bomb if the briefcase is opened. Under normal circumstances, that would not be a problem. We have robots which can retrieve the bomb and relocate it to our bomb disposal center where we can safely dispose of it. This bomb is a little more sophisticated. It has a proximity sensor that operates much like a motion detector on a home security system. If we get too close to the bomb, it will explode."
    "Who would have the capability of making such a bomb?" asked Sally.
    "There are several terrorist groups that use this type of bomb. That's what really has us baffled. We're not yet sure why an organized terrorist group would target GreenSnow Studios."
    Sally whisked the mic away from McVeani, held it in front of herself and said, "Thank you, Police Chief McVeani. Has International terrorism finally struck the world of glitter in Hollywood…?"
    "You're famous, my friend," whispered Fred then winked his blood shot eye.
    Tom was speechless. At first, all that came out of his mouth were stuttered pieces of words. "But...Uh...Uha...But...Uh."
    Fred put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said, "I guess you better get going. It's a long way to Antigua."
    "I didn't plant any bomb," finally exploded Tom.
    "Are you crazy? Everybody here can hear you," whispered Fred. "Of course you didn't. I did."
    "You did?" asked Tom.
    "Yes, well, actually, it was a friend of mine who lives out there." Fred noticed Tom becoming more uncomfortable. "He owed me a favor. So, I had him plant the bomb. God knows they deserved it."
    "But, they'll think that it was me. And, they'll see me as just another no good terrorist...No offense to you, Fred...of course."
    "Of course. I only did it for effect," explained Fred.
    "Effect?" Tom was becoming even more frazzled. "Is that what you call it?"
    "Well, I didn't think you'd mind." Fred was surprised to see Tom angry. "Besides, did you really believe that they would take your little letter serious? I know from experience. If you say that you have a bomb, you had better well have one. The police do have electronic devices that sniff out bombs."
    "What the hell am I going to do now?" Tom put his hands over his face.
    "I guess you'd better leave now for Antigua," said Fred.

    Mr. Larry Moe, the curly haired executive producer at GreenSnow Studios was in his business office in Los Angeles. He was speaking with Ron McVeani about the bomb. "Listen, Ron, I need you and your men to deactivate that bomb," demanded Larry.
    "Like I told you before, it can't be done. We're still not sure how to deactivate the proximity sensors."
    "You don't expect me to pay the five million dollars, do you?"
    "There is an alternative," said Ron. "We can send in a robot to blow it up in place."
    "But won't the building go up with it?"
    "Yes, but at least you won't have to pay the bombers demands."
    "That won't work. The building itself is worth only a million five, but the contents are estimated to be worth over fifteen million. The insurance company would scream if we set off the bomb just to keep from paying the five million dollars."
    "Then I suggest you meet the bomber's demands."
    "It just bothers me to pay a terrorist for being dishonest."
    "You needn't worry. When the bomber walks into the bank to withdraw the money, we'll grab him," explained McVeani. "We'll get this Hector Hernandez character, you'll see."

    Tom used a public telephone to make a balance inquiry. The automated teller revealed that five million dollars had been deposited in his fraudulent account. That same night, he caught a flight to the island of Antigua. It was a smooth flight. There were no storms except for the one that raged within Tom's innerself. One side of him cheered as he rushed for the goal line. The other side was disappointed with his lack of tolerance. He scolded himself for what he'd done and what he was about to do. The cheering section won over.

    The Second Bank of Antigua, read the sign in front of the building. The armed guards seemed to keep a special eye on Tom when he walked up to the teller. Maybe it was because he was an American. Or maybe because they could smell the fear which ran hot throughout his Aura.
    "I need to open an account," stated Tom.
    "How much money will you be depositing?" asked the sleepy, dark haired teller.
    "Five million U.S. dollars." Tom tried to be as quiet as he could, yet loud enough for the teller to hear.
    "Five million?" asked the astonished teller. The figure was large enough to wake her from her slumber.
    Tom nodded yes.
    "Please wait here. I'll get the president. She ran back to a glass partitioned office and spoke to the occupant.
    Tom saw a pair of eyes peek through the mini blinds. Seconds later, a balding version of Groucho Marx with a Geraldo mustache came to greet him. His approach made Tom a little uncomfortable. It was about as tactful as a smoodging used car salesman just before swooping upon unsuspecting prey. Ah, what a pleasant surprise - someone with money.
    The five million dollars was transferred to The Second Bank of Antigua.
    It all seemed a little too easy. Tom couldn't help but to feel as if he'd overlooked something. Strangely, That's what he kept telling himself, even as he paid cash for a new Hunter 450 sailboat.
    Tom did keep his promise to GreenSnow Studios. He sent them a package from Cancun, Mexico. In it was a copy of his manuscript, "The Itty Bitty Guy From Peoria". He attached a postcard which read:

Dear Mr. Larry Moe,
You looked real good on TV. Ever consider switching from producing to acting? You should. Anyway, enclosed is the bomb in question. It should be self-explanatory. I hope that you have learned a lesson. I know I have. As to the bomb that is still ticking away in your studio: I haven't a clue. I wasn't even the one who planted it. If only you didn't have so many darned enemies, you wouldn't confuse one bomb from the other.
Thanks for the money.
The Laptop Bomber

    And so, Tom sat comfortably under the bimini top. He placed one hand on the helm and the other on a rum n' coke. "Throw a couple of grouper on the barbecue," he commanded to his first mate who just happened to look great in a bikini. A warm breeze filled the sails and the golden sunset off the bow pointed him to his next adventure.
 

Copyright 1997-1999 by James Allen Starkloff. All rights reserved.

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Picture of the Shamrock III during the 3rd race with the Reliance in 1903. The Original Photo was taken by Oliver Lippincott.