Chapter Twenty-Eight
Councilor Phil Fry was sitting at his big oak desk in the oval council chambers on the ground floor of City Hall and listening to the City Engineer drone on. Fry hated council meetings. Giving up his Thursday evenings was bad enough, but then being subjected to the Engineer, droning on like the whine of a truck tire, was enough to cause a grown man to drop to his knees and plead for a quick death.
He reached for his pad of paper and drew a few circles and then some hatch marks. To the folks in the gallery and those watching on local cable, it would look like he was taking notes. He glanced up into the television camera, knowing Mrs. Fry would be watching while she boffed the newspaper boy. Or was it the mailman’s turn this week? Didn’t matter, but she would take keen
