TITLE: Mystery Meat
BANG! Then another. I'd like to say this was the first time people had thrown canned hams at me, but my heart wouldn't be in it. PING! I recognized one of the shiny cubes as it bounced off my windshield. The protesters had splurged this time and upgraded to the Consolidated Meat Company's "Premium Label" hams. I didn't mind their choice of ammo. Hey, in my business, a sale is a sale, even if they don't bother to eat it.
The local cops were doing what they did best: crowd control. That sounds unkind. That's because it is. It was apparently too much to ask for the group of men and women in matching blue uniforms to arrest the hooligans throwing canned hams at me, even with the number of cameras pointed their way. I steered the Ham-ster to the right, away from the angry mob and their projectiles, and over toward the cluster of reporters who'd taken refuge near the entrance to the Jumbo Fred-Mart.
The parking lot was big enough to stage a rock concert, with ample room left over for the concessionaires. It was mostly empty, save for the few brave souls who'd chosen to go shopping early on a Wednesday morning. I let off the gas and tapped the brakes. Speed bumps were not the Ham-ster's cup of tea. Any sudden change in direction was likely to result in something falling off. Like a door.