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THE ATTACK OF THE IGNOROIDS WAYNE WIGHTMAN I, DERRIK RAMSDEN, DO NOT rattle easily. So when old pal Vreedon emptied my bank accounts, leaving me exactly $8.73, did I weep? Did I moan? Hardly. I did, however, contact two junkies, give them his address, and tell them that he had five and a half pounds of crack hidden someplace in his apartment. Vreedon, however, is no sloth. He moved too fast for them; he had already vanished, and the junkies, pathetic skinks, got six months for trying to steal the doors and plumbing fixtures. A month before, Vreedon had told me, "C'mon Ramsden, I need investment capital and I know from hacking around that you've got $9,000 stuck in miserable savings at something like 2.1%. This is heavily big. This is, in short, a deal!" He sprawled on my plywood- bottomed sofa drinking my last generic beer and doing a little absent-minded tap-
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