“Easy now, mister. There’s no need for that kind of language. Show a little respect for your elders. Just tell me whether you are or are not the big-shot television producer who had all those game and reality shows on the air. The one I’ve been wanting to talk to for an entire year. No, more like praying to talk to. Well, come on, you are, aren’t you?”

“I’m a television producer, but I’m not famous. Now go away.”

“Ha! I knew you were famous and I know who you are. You’re—”

“Didn’t I just tell you to go away? Where do you get off grabbing my shoulder, anybody’s shoulder, you bent and misshapen piece of scheise.”

“I must talk to you,” said the cripple, immune to slurs. “I’m sure you won’t believe your ears when I tell you what I’m going to tell you. Or your eyes when you see what I have to show you. You’ll—”

“You’re not going to show me a damn thing. Now go away, do you hear?”

“Like I was saying, you’ll want to hear what I have to say because…because…” The cripple suddenly stopped speaking and started coughing. Violently. The spasms turned his white face red as the poor man gasped for breath. The cripple’s helpless coughing momentarily mesmerized the producer. It caused him to stare at the sick shell of a man and wonder when he would quit his awful hacking. Other pedestrians stopped walking and regarded the cripple as they passed. Eventually the cripple was able to get his coughing under control, and when he did he continued speaking as if nothing had happened. “…because it’s important I speak with you. Very very very important. Three verys.” The cripple cackled.

“I’m sure what you have to discuss is important,” said the producer. “Every misfit walking the streets of this city always wants to talk to me about something important, usually some incredible television idea, the best ever created by man. Or the beggar wants money for something. Okay, okay, I’ll give you a couple of dol—”