![]() He thought that, subconsciously, he had been expecting something like this for years. John Shooter just happened to be the first person to show up on his doorstep and accuse him of it right out loud. He felt guilty because writing stories had always felt a little bit like stealing, and probably always would. That was why he felt guilty even though he knew he hadn't plagiarized Farmer John Shooter's story. But the item came to you free, clear, and unencumbered. You charged whoever wanted to buy that thing from you-oh yes, all the traffic would bear, and a little more than that, if you could, to make up for all the times the bastards shorted you-magazines, newspapers, book publishers, movie companies. Why would there be? Nobody gave you a bill of sale when you got something for free. īut when you got a story idea, no one gave you a bill of sale. As to how it had made him feel, finding that the similarity actually existed. The man was one of the Crazy Folks, of course that was now proven in brass if any further proof had been needed. He would have shown the man in the round black hat his automobile registration, invited him to compare the number on the pink slip to the one on the doorpost, and sent him packing. He could have done it even if the two cars in question had been the same year, make, model, and color. If John Shooter had come to his door and said 'You stole my car' instead of 'You stole my story,' Mort would have scotched the idea quickly and decisively. He blundered from one row to the next, and the sun glinted off the watches he was wearing-half a dozen on each forearm, and each watch set to a different time. ![]() He dreamed he was lost in a vast cornfield.
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