you’ve gotta do something. don’t you?

How much sympathy can you have for an inanimate object?  Why don’t you ask this young jacket from Los Angeles?

It was a good jacket. It had seen many things: the inside of a hundred cars, the blood of its owner’s rivals (and of the owner himself, on occasion). Scrunched up in a corner, or draped over a headrest, it had observed backseat tussles – had, in fact, been instrumental in bringing them about.

Not surprising, really: the jacket was as much a part of Buzz as was his own skin; it had absorbed his essence through sheer proximity. The leather was strength, it was leadership, it was effortless cool. Invincibility. Little wonder that the sight of that jacket – striding down the street, hanging out at the bar, slung over a shoulder in the heat of the day – had such an effect on the girls.

Why didn’t Gunderson rip the strap right off? Surely he was strong enough. Why didn’t he just open the door and leap out, leaving the jacket to fend for itself? He was certainly fast enough; his skill with a flick-knife was legendary. As the car tumbled end over end towards the surf-sprayed rocks, the man screamed, but the jacket was silent.

It had won, after all.

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