Woul you like to buy a pin stripe suit and a novel blended together? Scabel’s material allows the pin stripes to be words, any words, and when you buy the suit you can chose those words. So it could be a short phrase that repeats or the entirety of your favorite novel.

Personally I could live with a suit that reprinted William Gibson’s Neuromancer:

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
`It’s not like I’m using,’ Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd
around the door of the Chat. `It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency.’ It was a
Sprawl [1] voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could
drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.
Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses
with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown
decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone’s whores and
the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal
scars. `Wage was in here early, with two joeboys,’ Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his
good hand. `Maybe some business with you, Case?’
Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.
The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable
beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for
another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator,
cased in grubby pink plastic. `You are too much the artiste, Herr Case.’ Ratz grunted; the sound
served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. `You
are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.’
`Sure,’ Case said, and sipped his beer. `Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck
isn’t you.’
The whore’s giggle went up an octave.
`Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend of mine.’
She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely
moving. But she left.
`Jesus,’ Case said, `what kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can’t have a drink.’
`Ha,’ Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, `Zone shows a percentage. You I let
work here for entertainment value.’

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