Besides the growling thunder and the howling wind, Jefferson Park was still. Summer had ended only eight days ago and was beginning to surrender the life, which it gave annually to the flora and fauna of the Puget Sound, to its natural death in Autumn, breaking the season out with the steady fall and toss of leaves in the wind. There was but one thing amiss on Beacon Hill in the witching hour.

A lone figure approached a mass of people, clad in similarly dark attire and masked by the cover of night. The only light from his silhouette in the darkness was that of his watch. "01:41 AM."

"You're late," an authoritative voice chided from amongst the crowd that separated into two throngs at the sound of his reprimanding.

The accused stood trial and trembled, stumbled over his mistake. "Sorry, sir, I—"

"It doesn't matter," interrupted the leader. A ring on his finger glinted in the shadows. "Are you ready?"

The underling cleared his throat and, subserviently bowing his head, said, "Yes."

"Let us begin." By the leader's command, the group formed a circle of roughly twenty-five people in number, and the late man joined their ranks. They waited under the clouds for the signal, and the leader took his position on the outside of the circle, facing north at the center of it. He held his hands in the air as a priest before his sheep would, only the mood was more sinister, more ominous.

At his signal, the group began a chant comparable to the hymns of the old churches. An ancient language created a polyphony of sounds that blended into a mighty, direful song of summoning. To their calls a small light formed at the center of the circle and cast its beam into the night sky.

Lightning crackled like a whip across the clouds, and everything faded into black.

---

The long hand was just barely on the 2, and the short hand laid its mark just past the long hand's. Albrecht counted the hours as they ticked by. It's... about... 2:10, he calculated, giving the clock a sideways glance. The lecture about federalism was for the most part complete, and his AP Government teacher filled the extra time by making small talk with students about politics and weather. Albrecht's eyes on the other hand traced the patterns in the carpet and the seam at which it had torn apart while his mind traced whatever stray thought had filled it in the moment.

Albrecht Hart felt empty. Although he couldn't be more satisfied with his life and the direction in which it was going, something was missing, begging to be found again, just so that he could move on with his life and get over it. But that was the problem. He didn't know precisely what. He absently stared at the screen of his phone. It too told the time, albeit with more accuracy: "14:10. September 29, 2015." Sighing, the 17-year-old gazed out the window at the world outside the school, just waiting there for the bell to ring, for class to be dismissed.

Minutes passed, and the bell tolled its beeping to the flood of high schoolers rushing through the doors. Probably the most relieving part of the day was when the day was over. Passing the Episcopalian church to the southwest, Albrecht traveled down California Ave's shady, paved sidewalks to the normal place, a little butcher that made pretty decent pork sandwiches, nestled between a law firm and a small apartment building. He'd already ordered two of the usual, two drinks to go with, and sat by the window in the front of the restaurant facing the street. He watched, and he waited as the school zone traffic flowed slowly by. She's late, again. And she's the one telling me to show up on time.

Athena's knuckles were a pale white as she watched the movers carry a large table up the stairs into her apartment. It was the one big item she had brought from Indiana. She wasn't even sure why. There were such beautiful, intricate carvings in it and it was simply too hard to leave behind. "Please be careful. It's old" she spoke out as nicely as she could.

"Look lady, it has to weigh like 300 lbs. Do you want it careful or do you want it upstairs?" Athena was always told west coast people were nice. She hadn't seen much of that so far, but it had only been a couple of days. She quietly moved out of the way, sitting down on a chair anxiously. A loud bang brought her back to her feet, and running over to the stairs. A hole the size of a baseball had been punched into the wall.

"Seriously! I don't have the money to fix that! Come on guys." She had moved from frustration to anger. The two guys cursing under the
breath as they continued their carry. Eventually they made it to the top, and into her apartment. She ran her fingers across the designs on the top of the table. They were so strange. The table was in tact, so she ushered the guys out the door. "You put a hole in my wall, don't expect a tip." With that, they made their way out.

Frustrated, and now hungry, Athena decided it would be best to leave the apartment for a bit. She gathered a notebook and a pen, and headed downstairs to the butcher shop just next door. She was surprised how busy it was, but it gave her time to dissect the menu and figure out what she wanted. Eventually, she got her sandwich and a drink, and found a small table in the front corner of the room. Sitting down, her eyes began to bounce around the room taking in all of her fellow diners. People watching was a favorite activity of hers. She opened her notebook, writing a few words here and there to avoid the suspicion, and just watched.

Maria paced quickly down the sidewalk. Her bus had broken down a few blocks back and she was thanking the lord she chose to wear flats today (though she did most days) Tapping into her phone with slight distress she hurriedly relaid her messages to her old friend. He was in town for the first time in three years and she hadn't seem since a year before even that. He didn't travel much due to work but he did his best to see all his old pals, Maria included. Just as was about to send another "i'm sorry, the stupid bus broke" again, she got the horrible message instead. "It's okay, maybe next time."

Biting her lip at this she slowed then stopped walking altogether. Starring at her phone screen she cursed the day. First she had woken up late, then her cousin had dropped by uninvited asking for money and now her stupid broken car lead to a stupid broken bus and she missed the one meeting she had actually been looking forward to lately. Her shoulders stooped and she tapped out a "yeah, next time would be great." She shoved her phone in her jean pockets and crossed her arms. As if to add insult to her current situation the bus she had gotten off of not long ago drove past her, heading to the stop she would have transferred to.

One eye twitching with some anger Maria quickly looked around her area. The few building presenting themselves had one small butcher in the middle. While not usually her cup of tea, she didn't care today. Stress eating was a terrible thing. Marching into the small shop she quickly ordered a salami sandwich and a soft drink (another thing she only had when stressed). Sitting wherever was most isolated, she tore into her food and starred daggers at the condiments.

The mounted transformer was left quite a mess. Frayed and blackened sheet metal hung jagged, swaying with the breeze, and the inner coil still hissed and sparked when a volt of electricity managed to pass through. Once high on a pole, the distributor now lay rent on the street, its life ended in a rather violent explosion as a fork of lightning struck it in the night's storm. Two people had gathered before it, behind a small hardware store in the south end of Roxhill.

Vincent sighed. Not even eight in the morning, and I'm already cleaning up dad's messes.

The man beside him, the store's manager, chuckled. "Been here since dark. One of the neighbors figured a bomb went off and called me." Mr. O'neil was a portly man with sad eyes. He was not the most capable of men, but he did not ask much for salary, and Vincent knew he could be counted on to seize certain "opportunities" in customer transactions.

"Don't you have a number to call for this sort of thing?" Vincent asked. "This is the city's job."

"'Fraid not," O'neil said. "They said this one's on your property, so you gotta shell out the cash for it yourself. No power until then."

Vincent sighed again. "I'll call requisitions. Cash only until this gets fixed. You're already low on sales this year, you can't afford a day off. Got it?"

O'neil shrugged. "You know, this doesn't look so bad," he said, moving toward the transformer. "We could probably patch it up for the time being." He crouched down with a grunt, reaching in to grab the coil.

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "What the hell are you-"

There was a flash and O'neil suddenly jerked, his entire body going rigid. He fell to the concrete. The only noise audible was a gentle thump, followed by the whistle of air leaving the man's lungs, his last living breath.

"Are you serious?" Vincent asked the corpse. The only emotional response he could manage was a chuckle at the absurdity.

He did not feel comfortable touching the man's body, nor remaining on the street, and so he quickly removed his phone, dialing for an ambulance while he stepped into his vehicle. The black sports car made its way hastily to Vincent's private estate on Mercer Island, its occupant lost in thought all the while.

This is going to be a nightmare of paperwork. God damn it, and thought this day couldn't get any more tiresome. He tskd irritably, a crease forming in his brow. But something was bothering him, something he tried to mask with trivial thoughts. He had seen men die before, but not someone like that. It was too close to home. Someone that he knew. The man had a daughter, a girl Vincent would have fancied had she not been related to someone so incompetent. How would she feel?

The car took a sudden left turn as Vincent decided not to return home. He needed somewhere else to calm his troubled mind, something closer to nature. A park perhaps, or the beach.

'So, sorry I can't jump on your bandwagon of compelled idol worship; sorry I can't suspend all my core beliefs and principles to bow down and genuflect in fawning admiration of someone who is deceiving over a billion people...'
I'm just taking a look at one of my latest videos, one with a long list of reasons why the Pope is not in any way the infallible saint left-wing media outlets so often claim he is. I have nothing against Christianity itself, but let's just say that the Pope definitely isn't the prime example of a good Christian, and not get into the aforementioned long list of reasons. It's gotten a reasonable number of views in that time, and the comments (as usual) are going haywire over whether or not my words have any truth to them. (Of course they do, you just need to do the bloody research.) There's also (as usual) conspiracy theories about a variety of things being bounced around, my personal favourite being whether certain figures and establishments are in fact the Biblical Antichrist and/or Whore of Babylon, ranging from the Pope himself to the entire religion of Islam. To be fair, I strongly believe and have frequently presented evidence to the viewers that the migrant crisis in Europe is being exploited by jihadists to bring down western civilisation, alongside the passive issues that any sort of immigration on this scale brings, but if the Bible does have precedence in this specific regard, it might be time to genuinely fear for the United Kingdom's continued well-being.
I suppose it's a good thing I'm not in the UK anymore, then. I mean, America's not currently better in terms of actual living standards, but it's not practically allowing itself to be invaded without a fight, at least. Speaking of America, I finally moved all my stuff into place around the new house. Score one for living alone, I suppose. And in this time and place, I really am alone, aren't I? None of the few people who I considered friends followed me here (understandably enough, most of them couldn't just up and move as rapidly as I did), I'm not living with any family members (nor have I for several years), so no attachments to my past beyond my continuing and currently freelance job... a fresh start, I think this is called. It feels good, to be honest. It makes for a nice change of pace. And to celebrate... well, why not head out somewhere? I need to figure out the layout of the town, at any rate, if I'm to live here for the foreseeable future. I head out of the house, and begin taking a walk along the nearest street... let's say we try to find some notable landmarks or what have you.

Within the next 20 minutes, three people entered the pork-shop: a clearly-stressed woman with long, curly hair and unwelcoming, blue eyes, a more-modest woman of similar stature and short, black hair, and a well-dressed man with dark blond hair and a cynical gaze. Not one of them was the friend Albrecht was waiting on, and each was far from it. The girl he sought was care-free, all garish and amiable, and childishly unassuming and yet adult altogether.

One TV mounted haphazardly on the north wall of the room showed CNN whose anchors currently were discussing the 2016 election trail and the Pope. A sports station on the other TV was presenting information about the Nationals and the Mariners. The rest of the shop was silent that nothing else could be heard except for journalists, harping about the significance of the Pope's visit just four days ago and the Bernie Sanders surge, or for commentators, speculating the outcome of the baseball games that would play later that evening. Idly Albrecht checked his phone again and looked out the storefront as if his reflection in the window would suddenly be replaced by his friend's presence. "14:50. September 29, 2015," his phone read. He'd been sitting there for roughly 15 minutes already, his food already cleaned from his tray and his drink half empty. Yes, she was especially tardy.

Speak of the devil, and light refracted across the room, the bell over the front door ringing its response. Lo and behold, she had arrived. The girl had tight skinny jeans and a black, Fall Out Boy tank top, and over it, she wore a loose, mint-green open cardigan with floral print. Her light brown hair fell below her shoulders, and her eyes were a medium blue. She had a long face, fair skin, and lips like pink roses in the fall, all of this coming from her Nordic ancestry. Albrecht called out to her in his high voice matter-of-factly. "Spät."

"What?" Nordic ancestry that obviously didn't reach her.

"I said, 'spät.' You know, German for 'late'?" Albrecht spoke as if she expected her to know, as if he was chiding her for a grave mistake.

She joined the brown-haired boy with the glasses. "Bitch," she said, slapping him on the face playfully.

"Whatever, Clarissa." Albrecht rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and crossed his legs, and he scowled at her in mock spite. He slid her food towards her across the table, and Claire sipped her favorite drink like it was holy water. Drumming his fingers on the table to the beat of a song only he knew, the young Hart asked, "What did you want to talk about, again?" She'd told him before that she had something interesting for them to do or talk about (or something like that, but Albrecht hardly remembered at this point), and the question was burning on his mind.

The park was a good choice. Vincent did not think he had ever before visited that particular one, but in all of his experience he had never known parks to be all that different from one another. He had arrived after several hours of aimless wandering and running small errands, trying to distract himself, but in the end he knew he needed some quiet reflection. The park he had found was nearly empty, and provided enough cover from the street to be somewhat private. A crisp autumn breeze nipped at his collar as he entered, and he reflexively fixed his tie.

That prompted another natural, practiced motion, and he reached into his coat and removed a small metal case. A quick look around confirmed little present danger, and from the case Vincent brought out a long white roll. Fetching a lighter from another pocket, he lit up the joint and took a long drag.

Good that I get rid of this, he thought, unable to escape the morning's incident. I'm sure they won't let me get away with leaving the scene of an accident. Another thought struck him. Hell, they better not try to pin it on me.

Further into the park, the path widened into a clearing. A small pond rested on the far end, and from it a stream swerved through the grass. The path became a stone bridge, and around it autumn colors bloomed on several tall trees. Beneath the closest tree was a bench, and on it, Vincent saw, sat a man, busying himself with a laptop. Vincent approached, taking another drag, falling back on the bench and putting his foot up on his knee. A musty, herbal scent lingered, thick in the air.

He watched the man's activity for several moments, then took the joint between two fingers and a thumb and offered it over. "Wanna help me finish this?"

@GummyCat

Well isn't this quaint. I noticed this particular butcher's shop sandwiched between two larger buildings, and I figured I'd take pity on it and see what it sells. But in actuality, it looks pretty popular for its size, given the number of people in here - there's a presumed couple chatting over there, at least two other women doing their thing, and it looks like a few other people too. I won't bother counting, anyway. I head over to the counter and take a look at what meats there are, then ask the guy at the counter, presumably the owner, whether he does pulled beef sandwiches. Yes, beef, not pork; I understand that pulled pork is the normal thing to do, but I figure "why not shake things up for my first meal out?" Anyway, the guy responds in the affirmative, but I'll need to wait for a bit for it to come out, and it might cost extra depending on how much effort it is; I say that's fine, then take a seat at an unoccupied table. But of course it costs extra to do pulled beef over pulled pork, especially when the customer is a limey Brit who's out in town for the first time... though to be fair, that may well just be me projecting. Besides, I can't imagine I'd be particularly welcome here again if I made a scene haggling over the price of a bloody sandwich, when there are far more important issues that a scene could and should be made over. And after all, there's every likelihood it'll be worth the cost. Those meats looked to be pretty high quality.

@BCTheEntity@deadpixel101@ravenDivinity

Eventually the need to write faded. The ideas stopped coming as she continued to get more and more distracted by looking outside, and the flow of new people coming into the shop. She turned her attention to her food. It was fantastic! They never had anything quite like it in Indiana. There was actual seasoning other than just salt. Each bite became an experience as she closed her eyes and simply enjoyed all of the flavors overwhelming her palette.
Her eyes opened as yet another man made his way into the shop. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She was too busy having a foodgasm over the sandwich. She knew where she'd be spending most of her meals from now on. Who is that guy... Her mind raced to place him in her data bank, when suddenly it clicked. She couldn't help but say out loud... "That bastard...." She stood aggressively, and approached the man waiting for his pulled beef.
"So what's going to bring down Western Civilization today Mr. Watson? Hm? Oh I watch all your videos. Are you here to do an expose on beef prices? Hipster lifestyles? Acid rain? What's the next big conspiracy?" She tried to fuse her words with a bit of sweetness, but it was hard to hide her frustrations at the conspiracy filled know-it-all.

@Shadowpenguin07


And there goes my good mood. Apparently, my reputation precedes me, even all the way over here in Seattle. And I just love the sarcastic tone she's using too; false sweetness overlying obvious, impotent frustration. Well, if she wants an argument...
'Actually, none of those,' I say to her, a wide and very false grin on my face and in my voice. 'The "next big conspiracy", as you so put it, is that I, Joe Watson, am in a sandwich shop, waiting for my food to arrive. You see, there's this newfangled and kind of exciting pastime called "lunch"; I haven't had an opportunity to have this "lunch" yet, and so I've come all the way out here, to Seattle, in order to see whether it's worth investing my energy into in the long run, or whether it's just a load of baloney. Pun very intended. But even so, it's nice to know that one of my long-time viewers is so dedicated that they're willing to come over and talk to me even as I'm in the middle of this highly important investigation, perhaps even at risk of messing up the final results.'
The suggestion, I should hope, is obvious from my tone. I've been doing this for a very long time, and I am better at both arguing my case and sarcasm than you are, you left-wing radical bitch.

@BCTheEntity

She didn't expect anything more from Mr. Watson. She took a moment to size him up before choosing her response. She pulled out a chair and sat across from the man. "That's such a great idea.... Do you know why people get frustrated at you? It's not that you're a conceded, self-righteous asshole. People nowadays tend to love guys like that. It's that you have a voice, and instead of using it for anything positive you continue to just spew your hatred."
Her tone grew louder with every word. She was sure most of the shop could hear her quite clearly, but it wasn't going to stop her. "You have an opportunity to be heard. People die for that chance. The media twists, and turns things for their own benefits. I get that. I understand that the highest bidder pulls the strings, but you Mr. Watson are no better! You tell people what the facts say, but at the end of the day facts lie! They don't tell you what people feel. They reduce people to numbers, and our history to a formula that can be computated... The stories that you tell... they aren't about people. You forget all about the people.. and part of me thinks it's because you don't have any people in your life. You forgot what they're actually like. Have a nice lunch Mr. Watson..."
With that she rose from the table and went back to her corner. She grabbed her notebook, and furiously began writing about the reason why we, as humans, feel anything. It was the most motivated she had felt in a long time, and in that way she was thankful for the prick.

@Shadowpenguin07


My God, I can hear "The Star-Spangled Banner" playing from inside her skull as she talks. "Facts lie", she says; no, they don't, that's why they're called FACTS, you raving moron. And as for her thinking I've lost my personal touch? If I didn't have that, I wouldn't have a job. My job is as people-oriented as you can get; you need to know how people work in order to do well as a reporter, even one who doesn't fluff the truth to make the viewers more comfortable. Especially one who doesn't fluff the truth, even. Facts do not preclude emotion, though the opposite may be true; and the fact is, if we keep going down the path we're on, it's going to be a disaster. But I'm sure the people around me don't care about anything like that; quite frankly, I'm surprised they're not giving a round of applause to the girl for her speech.
Speaking of which, I should come up with a retort. Or rather, I shouldn't, because doing so would add yet more fuel to the fire that is her leftist lunacy, but I figure that if I'm going to let her engage a rant that substantial, it's only fair that I get to respond. Fortunately, there's a very obvious response to what she's said, meaning I can communicate as much of a comeback as possible with minimal effort... a cheap comeback for its content, of course, but nevertheless effective. I stand, walk over to her again, tap her on the shoulder until she looks up at me, and with utmost relish, quietly say 'Feelings are what bring people like Hitler into power.' And that's it, that's all I say, after that I just turn around and walk back to my table. She doesn't deserve a more in-depth response, and quite frankly, it might do her some good to try and consider the full extent of my comment. Maybe she'll have a change of heart and come to see the light that is not being a complete and utter moron... but I know better than some that people rarely change their stripes, hence why I didn't bother taking up a more meaningful discussion with her. People will believe what they believe; if watching every single one of my videos didn't change her mind, talking to me in person sure as hell won't do it either. Still, so long as she's watching my videos, she's helping to pay for my lifestyle. Unless she uses AdBlock, as so many do nowadays... I bet she does.
Now all that's left to do is wait for my sandwich to come along. Or, alternatively, for another nay-sayer to try and tell me I'm a hateful evil bastard who doesn't deserve to live, for... telling people how things are. Because clearly, I don't deserve to live for being so cruel to them. Clearly.

The nerve.... the balls.... He was truly clueless. He was a moron of the highest degree. Feelings brought Hitler to power? HA! He wasn't getting away that easily. She gathered her things, putting them away, and then approached once more with her bag in hand. "Feelings brought Hitler to power huh? You're proving my point.

'He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future.
Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it.
The victor will never be asked if he told the truth.'

Sound familiar? I'm sure Hitler's your worst enemy. You don't care who won, you want to know what the truth was. That's just it. You don't care. Oh and by the way." Athena stood and approached the counter where she happened to notice a sandwich waiting. "That his?" She said pointing back to the man at the table.

"Yea... pulled beef can you believe it?" The man behind the counter scoffed.

"What a loon huh? I'm Athena, I live next door now." She extended a friendly smile, and then grabbed the plate and walked over to Watson's table, unwrapping the sandwich with her free hand. "As far as your story goes Joe.... " She threw the plate down, and took a huge bite out of the middle of the sandwich... "It's wonderful..." she managed to mumble out with a mouthful. She threw the sandwich down back on the plate, and headed for the door.

@Shadowpenguin07


And now she's gone too far. It happens sometimes, with the particularly devout liberals. And when they do go too far, I'm not the sort who's willing to let it slide. I quickly stand, jog after her, and grab her by the collar with my left hand before she can walk out, then drag her back into a headlock with my right arm and begin dragging her over to the counter again, heedless of the looks everyone else is giving me. As I do this dragging, I say to the girl (and loud enough for the rest of the restaurant to hear) 'Now, I'm perfectly willing to engage in witty recourse against raving lunatics like yourself. Freedom of speech is an important thing for civilisation. I've dug a metaphorical ravine, however, at people interfering with things I actually have to pay for, and you've just leapt right into it. Now,' I continue, turning her to face the counter as we near it and standing behind her in such a way that, should she lash out, she can't immediately reach any sensitive areas of mine, 'I'm willing to forgive this transgression, let you walk out of here, and we can both pretend this little interaction never happened, but the price for that will be however much the sandwich you just ate half of cost. Get your wallet-slash-purse out, put the money on the counter, and then I'll let you go. And by the way,' I say to the guy at the counter, who understandably looks fairly concerned, 'I'll have another pulled beef sandwich. Or "shredded beef", if you want to act like pulled beef is such an absurd thing to want to try.'

Albrecht and Clarissa were well into their lunches when shit hit the fan.

Something like pitiful bickering broke the tranquility of the restaurant. They were up, they were down, a plate clattered loudly. They talked fast like chickens in a pen, and they transgressed upon the law and order of the establishment just within their arguments. Together, that deeply conservative man and staunch liberal broad poured the fuel for a great fire all over the floor. The clamor was not contagious, but the noise it generated was piercing over the drone of the television sets as if they were being ripped from the walls and silenced. Clarissa's eyes were wide with surprise, her hands paused in the air with the sandwich caught between her deft fingertips. She, amidst the chaos, asked Mr. Hart the question herself, "What the hell is going on over there?"

But Albrecht too was at a loss for words. His countenance was blank and thoughtless for a few moments as he pieced the scene together. Then after the realization dawned on him, each word that was thrown across the room caused Albrecht more stress. The more the angry debaters embattled themselves, the more Albrecht felt the urge in his heart to mediate. Who else would? A few faces appeared ready to intervene, but they instead left the restaurant to avoid confrontation. The others that still sat tried in earnest to ignore the terrible awful, that was building in one corner of the shop and filling the room like a pungent, toxic gas. The world is indeed a weird place, Albrecht thought.

Their gas, Albrecht's flame, all great ingredients for quite the scene. "I'm gonna see what I can do." His feet shuffled to the counter in a matter of seconds, but he showed reluctance as he approached. He doubted his ability to act, and Albrecht wasn't sure if he was equipped to resolve the issue. A little more encouragement from the fiasco was all he needed, and it came.

"STOP!" Albrecht's voice roared above those of others as he lashed out. He had to muster a bit of control to avoid seriously injuring anyone. "You!" He forced himself in between them and used as much strength as he could to pry them apart. When they were separated, Hart confronted the man and pressed his fingers to the man's chest in a very aggressive and scolding manner. "What the hell do you think you're doing, causing a scene like this in a restaurant of all places? If you've got enough gumption to tout what a reasoned adult you are, you've got enough reason," Albrecht said scaldingly, derision dripping into his voice, "to be the 'bigger adult' and not act like this!" He shoved the man back with his palm and turned to the girl, whom he gave the same treatment. "And don't think that you're in the clear, either! If he's a conspiracy theorist, InfoWars, Breitbart, or what have you, you ought to know that he and his kind can't be reasoned with!" Albrecht's face was red, and his heart was pounding with rage. Talking like that really made his temper fly off the handle.

@ravenDivinity@Shadowpenguin07


"Oh, dear God, they're multiplying..." I mutter under my breath as this... teenager scolds the girl, the girl who just decided to eat half my sandwich. Oh, but he's not scolding her for her behaviour, because clearly I'm in the wrong for manhandling her despite her oh-so-delicate feminine sensibilities; no, he's scolding her for even getting in a debate with me. Apparently, "my kind" cannot be reasoned with, at all, ever. Ugh, I bet this is going to be all over Youtube, too. Go on, then, keep filming if you like. It won't change how this goes down. With a loud and exaggerated sigh, I grab the man's shoulder and spin him round to face me once he's finished his spiel.
"You said it yourself, "sir"," I begin scathingly, "some people can't be reasoned with. It just happens that the target of this presumption was incorrect; I quite fancy that in this case, the unreasonable one is the girl here. In case you didn't notice, there was no good reason for her to consume half my damn lunch, or indeed to decide she wanted to get into an argument with me in the first place other than her own misguided beliefs and apparent lack of self-control when it comes to attacking others for their thoughts. And she hasn't even had the common courtesy to introduce herself yet, of course," I continue, putting a slight tone of sarcasm into my voice as I say this, "though given how our first meeting's gone, I'm fairly certain I'd be happy as Larry if I never saw her again. And as for you," I add with a point toward the boy, "I think "overly zealous left-wing teenager" accurately describes you, from what you've presented so far... maybe add in "will probably die of an aneurysm in his early thirties", if you get that angry on a regular basis. Still, that's probably fifteen more good years in you; enjoy those while you can. Pardon me, if you can."