Boyer Makes a Stinky

A Book in the Pants is Worth... Not Much

If It's Written by David Boyer

The Everyready Plagiarist is writing a book. 

It makes perfect sense.  I'm writing a book about him.  He's terrified about the material it will reveal.  So what's a plagiarist like David Boyer to do?  Well, since he doesn't have original ideas, he steals from me.  He decides to write a book about himself, too.  Damn.  But the Vincennes, IN Plagiarist doesn't like the truth, because it makes him look bad.  So in his version, he's a victim of hideous cyber-stalkers. 

How can this be?  In his personal fairy tale, he's an honest man, villified by others, stalked by them on the Internet and even threatened by them.  There's a mob after him, you see.  He believes this religiously.  Sure he was a mass plagiarist, an online predator editor who victimized so many writers I've lost count of the total.  Why would anyone be angry with him?

Then again, David Boyer- known to many as "Can't Hitchhike Dave"- believes in his prevaricating soul that he's not a plagiarist, and if he believes that, he can believe anything.

Alien Police Close in on Boyer

At precisely eight o'clock this morning, David Boyer, the notorious Vincennes, Indiana plagiarist poured himself a cup of fresh coffee, put his tin foil hat on his head and turned the TV on as he sat down to compose a trial list of imaginary ailments to excuse his crimes.  He was in the middle of descibing his baffling allergy to Doritos as a medically documented cause of wanton plagiary, when a TV news flash caught his attention.

The astounding announcement that Gort, the most famous alien policeman of all time, was coming to Vincennes, Indiana to deliver to him an ultimatum so terrified the prevaricating plagiarist that he literally crawled across his kitchen table to get a closer look at the picture.  Fear squeezed Boyer's heart and slowed his pulse to near Yogi levels.

Dean Koontz, he thought.  Somebody must have told him that I ripped off Dean Koontz.  They love Dean Koontz.  Gort will lock me up in an asteroid until I turn into a mummy.

With his still nicotine stained fingers, Boyer turned up the volume.

"So," the announcer was asking the giant alien policeman, "is it true that you're walking to deliver a message to David Boyer on the first of April?"

"Gort, Klatu, Barada, Nikto, Boyer," said Gort.

"Is that all you know how to say?" asked the announcer.

The TV screen flashed bright red like a ruby on fire, and when the eerie radiance faded the announcer had disappeared and the visor that looked like Gort's alien eyebrows pulsed with a palpable anger as though it were ready to shoot out another terrible disintegration ray.

"Gort, Klatu, Barada, Nikto, Boyer," Gort said again.

Somebody must have told him I ripped off Clive Barker, too, thought Boyer.