All's Well...

The trouble with pacifists is that they get so wrapped up in their indignation at the guy who started the fight, they lose all appreciation for the guy who finishes it. Mind you, sorting the two out can be tricky, like now for instance.

Peter sits at the cafe, surrounded by peaceful diners and his burly security guards. The scene looks tranquil, feels idyllic, like a scene from ‘Roman Holiday’. You’d almost half expect to see Carey Grant show up on a moped at any moment. For his sake, it’s best he doesn’t any time soon.

From atop my rooftop perch, I start the chaos, lobbing my little arts and crafts projects down amongst the tables. They aren’t much, just some cobbled together explosive devices, nothing fancy. One shatters a teapot before bouncing to the ground. Another overshoots and takes out a window in a book shop. One actually bounces off Peter’s car. Most just hit the pavement and explode, causing all the tumult and panic I could have hoped for.

And there goes Peter, running to the forest.

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