alas, sometimes the best of us can't resist the temptation to save the world. take the story of poor murphy.
THE MAKING OF A REVOLUTIONARY
Let's go back to the beginning. Way back. Before the bloody battles and terrible insights. Before the flag filled with bullet-holes and the demise of Murphy's machine.
It all began in an industrial town in the middle of the country. Work went on as usual. Black smoke poured into the sky. A hundred thousand hands punched a hundred thousand clocks. Steam-drills pounded in the mineshafts. Automobiles creaked down assembly-lines. Two old ladies walked along Main Street, looking for the perfect mushroom. And Murphy, in a blond wig, sat under a hairdryer, reading Karl Marx.
Murphy had had a hard day.
He had ridden into town on his high-level chopper. Stopped at a diner. Ordered ham and eggs. Had even reached for the relish - when he was recognized by the waitress. Luckily, he had finished his coffee when the police walked in.
Being a man of action, Murphy ran into the Men's Room. Locked the door. Climbed out through the skylight, grabbing some woman's clothes hanging on a line. He leaped onto the street, was on his chopper and gone before the police could get their pistols smoking.
Murphy felt oppressed. As the girl worked his nails over and added a bit of polish, he read the words, "Bikers unite, you've nothing to lose but your chains."
The woman sitting next to Murphy coughed nervously.
"Young woman," she asked, "why do you wear black boots?"
you can read the whole sad tale at: www.pbase.com/wwp/murphy