Herbal Thought peddled along, gazing absently at a cloud shaped *exactly* like Jamaica, which he
thought must be some sort of prophetic omen.  It was--just as he was thinking this, he hit a pothole.
Hard.

The package he was delivering flew out of his bag and burst open, scattering its contents over
the road.

Herbal gasped in righteous indignation.  Before him he saw porn tapes, Playboy centerfolds, leather
lingerie, and some other things he couldn't identify but figured were similarly devil-spawned.  But worst
of all was the cassette with a home-made label that read: "Greatest Reggae Hits -- $10."
 
 

[ END ]