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wanted to die amid the drugged vision dream of a Xi coat. Maybe I was crying for a lot of reasons.

SEATTLEHAMA: THE THREAD THIEVERY BANG
    During the year that I stole yarn I probably collected enough to make a large, fluffy, and very ugly afghan. I didn't just do celebs, but suicidal salarymen, gastrolace-wearing saleswarriors, C average virgins, blind CFOs, accountants with a missing finger, plump housewives with overbites, and whatever new and quirky category one could image as my customer base began to shift from individual fanatics desperate for a piece of their favorite celeb to costume and fashion designers eager to add meaning, exclusivity, and trend to their lines.
    As for me, the yarn collector, bodice ripper, strand snatcher, thread thief, lint lifter, filament filcher, I improved my tools, my technique, my income, and my status. I took the best entervators to the higher floors; I ate at select restaurants where I was the only former slubber, sampling pickled bald eagle eggs and watching scantily clad dancers curse each other, I shopped for clothes in the glittering Full-Fashion Hallway, along the Violet Building's Consumer Revolution Promenade, and in Zé Brag Atrium, where saleswarriors spun bizarre, gruesome, and erotic stories of style and design to lure in the trippers, the holidays, and the world's consumers.
    And yet for all my newfound confidence, I made no friends. Seattlehama wasn't the city for lasting relationships. Most of the people there were tourists or shoppers on binges for clothes or sex or both. The people who lived in the city and plied the sales and service arts draped together. As for yarn rippers, for a while there was only me.
    Several months after the Tinyko rip, there were so many new orders that Withor hired two men to help. One was named Flak, and the other, Vit. I assumed that the three of us would become friends, but soon learned that I had nothing in common with them. Flak powdered his face and wore filmy white suits that made him look like a ghost. His black hair was teased and starched into a tall point. When I asked if it was supposed to be a volcano, he glared at me with disgust. As for Vit, he carried a large electric pump harp he never played and spent most of his time grooming himself and his endless collection of de Nimes pants.
    It was my job to teach them how to swipe yarn, but during my demonstrations all they would do was scoff and giggle.
    "A former corn prisoner cannot teach us anything," is what Vit finally said. So I left them to figure it out on their own. Sometimes I saw the marks of their efforts: ratty nibbles marring expensive jackets and skirts.
    After almost a year of thread thievery, it no longer satisfied me. "I want to make things," I told Withor. "I can't keep handing over the yarn."
    "Make things?" he laughed at me. "You can't mean design ?"
    "Yes, I want to design!"
    "A corn slubber designing fashion!" He tilted his head to the side and smirked. "How charming! You do have a sense of humor!" His smile slowly flattened into a grim line as his right hand crawled-tarantula-like-down the pins that tacked down his tie. "Listen to me: as a former slubber, you are forbidden from quitting, you should be forbidden from even thinking such ridiculous cut." He puckered his lips for a moment, thoughtfully. "But I tell you what: I'll make you a deal. I will release you from your job to pursue whatever ridiculous fantasies you have, but only after one last rip."
    It was all I wanted and was about to agree, when he held up a hand and looked up at the ceiling.
    "Hello there! Yes, I've been anxious to hear from you. Yes, I know the risks!" He leaned far back in his chair. "Listen to me… there is too much that must be protected! I know!… Yes, she knows how to do it.… Well, believe me, I detest her, but she is talented! Listen to me: I just had a luminous idea. It's a perfect back-up plan!… It will all be taken care of. Trust Withor! Goodbye!"
    He stayed far back in