Meg actually misjudged things rather badly, because the cloned triceratops hide makes a terrible couch. No matter how much they tan and oil it, sitting on it is like sitting on a pile of tires. Tractor tires.
Somebody else buys the patent for enough to get her mostly out of debt, starts making bulletproof vests that immediately antiquate Kevlar and goes on to do a lot of coke off starlets’ bellies. Meanwhile, Meg’s left with a warehouse full of square, tiger-striped, practically invulnerable leather cushions.
She tries to burn it down, but it turns out the damn stuff’s fireproof too.