The Rip-Off Read Online Free PDF Page A

peddling the few remaining Rainstar valuables, so I'd bought a car and taken off. No particular, no clear objective in mind. I simply didn't like it where I was, and I wanted to find a place where I would like it. Which, of course, was impossible. Because the reason I disliked places I was in-and the disheartening knowledge was growing on me-was my being in them. I disliked me , me, myself and I, as kids used to say, and far and fast as I ran I could not escape the bastardly trio.
    Late one afternoon, I strayed off the highway and wound up in a homey little town, nestled among rolling green hills. I also wound up with a broken spring, from a plunge into a deep rut, and a broken cylinder and corollary damage from getting out of the rut.
    The town's only garage was the blacksmith shop. Or, to put it another way, the blacksmith did auto repairs, except for those who could drive a hundred-plus miles to the nearest city. The blacksmith-mechanic quoted a very reasonable price for repairing my car, but he would have to send away for parts, and what with one thing and another, he couldn't promise to have the work done in less than a week.
    There was one small restaurant in the town, sharing space with the post office. But there was no hotel, motel or boarding house. The blacksmith-mechanic suggested that I check with the real estate dealer to see if some private family would take me in for a few days. Without much hope, I did so.
    The sign on the window read LUTHER BANNERMAN- REAL ESTATE INSURANCE. Inside, a young woman was disinterestedly pecking away at an ancient typewriter with a three-row keyboard. She was a little on the scrawny side, with mouse-colored hair. But she laughed wildly when I asked if she was Luther Bannerman, and otherwise endeared herself to me by childish eagerness to be of help, smiling and bobbing her head sympathetically as I explained my situation. When I had finished, however, she seemed to draw back a bit, becoming cautiously reserved.
    "Well, I just don't know. Mr… Britton, is it?"
    "Rainstar. Britt, for Britton, Rainstar."
    "I was going to say, Mr.-oh, I'll make it Britt, okay? I was just going to say, Britt. We're kind of out of the mainstream here, and I'm afraid you'd find it hard to keep in touch and carry on your business affairs, and"-she bared her teeth in a smile-" and so forth and so on."
    I explained that I had no pressing business affairs, not a single so forth let alone a so on. I was just traveling, seeing the country and gathering material for a book. I also explained, when she raised the question of accommodations for my wife and family, that I had none with me or elsewhere and that my needs were solely for myself.
    At this, she insisted on pouring me coffee from the pot on a one-burner heater. Then, having made me "comfy"- also nauseous: the coffee was lousy-she hurried back to a small partitioned-off private office. After several minutes of closed-door conversation, she returned with her father, Luther Bannerman.
    Of course, he and she collectively insisted that I stay at their house. (It would be no trouble at all, but I could pay a little something if I wanted to.)
    Of course, I accepted their invitation. And, of course, I was in her pants the very first night. Or, rather, I was in what was in her pants. Or, to be absolutely accurate, she was in my pants. She charged into my room as soon as the light went out. And I did not resist her, despite her considerable resistibility.
    I felt that it was the very least I could do for her, although quite a few others had obviously done as much. I doubt that they had fought for it either, since it simply wasn't the sort of thing for which men do battle. Frankly, if it had been tendered as inspiration for the launching of a thousand ships (or even a toy canoe), not a one would have hoisted anchor.
    Ah, well. Who am I to kid around about poor Connie and her over-stretched snatch? Or to kid about anyone, for that matter. It is one of fate's saddest