They rebuild the Process centres like a bad apology, the governments of the world suddenly very, very interested in finding the arsonists who were vengeful heroes at Xmastime. I smashed my comm after the sixth page from Dad and Mum.
Sometimes, I see Linus grinning from the newsscreens on Spadina, and once I caught sickening audio of him, the harrowing story of how he had valiantly rescued dozens of Process-heads and escaped to the subway tunnels, hiding out from the torch-bearing mobs. He actually said it, "torch-bearing mobs," in the same goofy lisp.
Whenever Dad and Mum appear on a screen, I disappear.
I've got over fifteen dollars left. My room costs me a penny a night, and for a foam coffin, it's okay.
#
Someone stuck a paper flyer under my coffin's door this morning. That's unusual — who thinks that the people in the coffins are a sexy demographic?
My very own father is giving a free lecture on Lasting Happiness and the
Galactic Federation, at Raptor Stadium, tomorrow night.
I make a mental note to be elsewhere.
Of course, it's not important where I am, the fricken thing is simulcast to every dingy, darky corner of the world. Pops, after all, has been given a Governor General's award, a Nobel Prize, and a UN Medal of Bravery.
I pinball between bars, looking for somewhere outside of the coffin without the
Tyrant's oration.