'PLAGIARIST SENDS A
MAN TO HELL'
'What the Hell went wrong with you; what's the
matter now? You're telling me you couldn't
disguise what you were doing? People had to know?
They should have never been even able to find out.
You asshole.' It went on like this at length.
Philadelphia's Walnut Street, by Rittenhouse
'What the Hell went wrong with you; what's the
matter now? You're telling me you couldn't
disguise what you were doing? People had to know?
They should have never been even able to find out.
You asshole.' It went on like this at length.
Philadelphia's Walnut Street, by Rittenhouse
Square, people sitting around. The little
Orange Bank Coffee Shop, serving
Peet's, where people sit around pretending
not to care, or at least to not being envious.
This guy next to me, some kind of writer or
something, was being berated by another guy,
a coffee companion at least, a big, fat guy all
worked up and sweaty about the face, over
a piece of writing he'd turned in that actually
was found out to be someone else's work,
barely disguised. The fat guy, for sure, was
acting like it was a capital crime, a Mafia hit,
for Christ's sake. I mean, I could understand
the deal, but what the hell, who really cared?
Next thing I knew, the fat guy's on the floor,
gagging and blue, on the way to dead.
no one knew what to do; the plagiarist guy
bent over, said 'See, I told you not to get
so worked up, now this!' He wasn't
excited, but turned to look up - 'Can
anyone please get some help. This man
is dying!' 911 and all that; the EMT's
arrived, picked him up, plopped him on a
gurney after doing all sorts of their work on
him. They declared, 'I'm sorry, but sure
this man is dead.'
Orange Bank Coffee Shop, serving
Peet's, where people sit around pretending
not to care, or at least to not being envious.
This guy next to me, some kind of writer or
something, was being berated by another guy,
a coffee companion at least, a big, fat guy all
worked up and sweaty about the face, over
a piece of writing he'd turned in that actually
was found out to be someone else's work,
barely disguised. The fat guy, for sure, was
acting like it was a capital crime, a Mafia hit,
for Christ's sake. I mean, I could understand
the deal, but what the hell, who really cared?
Next thing I knew, the fat guy's on the floor,
gagging and blue, on the way to dead.
no one knew what to do; the plagiarist guy
bent over, said 'See, I told you not to get
so worked up, now this!' He wasn't
excited, but turned to look up - 'Can
anyone please get some help. This man
is dying!' 911 and all that; the EMT's
arrived, picked him up, plopped him on a
gurney after doing all sorts of their work on
him. They declared, 'I'm sorry, but sure
this man is dead.'
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