Copyright (c) 1994 
 
             "HOW MANY, UH, NOT ANGELS EXACTLY . . ." 
 
 
     An avalanche begins with the fall of a single pebble. 
 
                               ***
 
     "Hey, Jackie," Curt Akin barked gleefully, "I have a 
great idea for the grand opening! Let's invite Ruby!" 
     "You're kidding, right?" Jackie Jones replied, with a 
raised eyebrow. "The last time she was anywhere near us . . ." 
     Curt thought for a moment. "Good point. Okay, so 
suppose we get someone to play Ruby?" 
 
                               ***
 
     Splashy posters advertised the event well in advance, 
and the flashy, goo-chewing redhead was a pretty fair imitation 
of the genuine article. From the scarlet locks and the sequined 
eye-shadow, to the Spandex halter, silver leather miniskirt, and
glass-heeled shoes, she looked like the virtual thing. The grand
opening was a huge success, right up until the black van pulled 
up outside. 
     Four men in turtlenecks and ski masks charged into the 
bookstore, scooped up the Ruby lookalike, and disappeared in a 
cloud of exhaust fumes and screaming tires. 
     The police were called, the satellite trucks arrived, and 
the mysterious kidnapping made the evening news. Even when the 
bedraggled actress reappeared, wig askew and missing a shoe, the
local stations continued to speculate. 
     Curt and Jackie's new venture got a lot of free publicity. 
 
                               ***
 
     In the next three weeks, phony Begonias opened shopping 
malls, biker bars, boutiques, and auto parts stores. Twenty- 
three separate appearances, from Florida to California, Maine to
Arizona. In each and every case, the black van with its quartet 
of black-clad Ruby-nappers appeared. Twenty-three artificial 
redheads were kidnapped and released. 

                               ***
 
     "Great, Kent, just great," Dick Burkhalter growled, 
pulling off his ski mask. "I've just spent three weeks 
criss-crossing the country with you clowns, and Ruby's still out
there somewhere!" 
     "I told you this wouldn't work," Herm Holtz added. "How 
do you kidnap a virtual character? Sheesh." 
     "Look, just drop me at the airport, okay?" Clark Burner 
chimed in. "I'm done chasing this wild goose." 
     Kent Ballard dropped his co-conspirators at the Phoenix 
airport, then turned northeast and thundered off into the night.
Several hundred miles later, having driven straight through to 
the following night, Kent finally pulled into the driveway of 
Casa Ballard. 
     He disabled the alarms, stepped gingerly through the 
minefield, and unlocked the back door, pressing the hidden catch
on the deadfall. He dropped his gloves and ski mask on the 
kitchen table, sighed a heavy sigh, and pulled a beer from the 
Frigidaire. 
     "Hey, Kentie-poo," came a drawl from the darkness, "got 
any Ho-Hos? 
                               END