In a Bronx saloon one night last week, something large and loathsome zoomed through the air, plopped on the bar, waved long, quivering antennae at Customer Michael X. McDermott. Customer McDermott, who had drunk two beers and was looking forward to more, changed his plans in midswallow and beat a hasty departure.
Back in the safer precincts of his native Manhattan, Customer McDermott told friends he had been attacked by a flying cockroach, two inches long, with scaly brown wings and hairy legs. They scoffed. "All right, so it didn't fly," said brooding...
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