You fly up and land on the roof of the bank, turning around to face the assembled police and clear your throat in preparation for your speech. Secretly, you begin sprinkling invisibue seeds of psychic disarray over the crowd from the skies. You talk and talk and talk, waiting for the psychic chaos seeds to take effect. Nobody will suspect a thing. Your speech drags on.
“Booo! What a load of crap!” Somebody in the crowd finally shouts.
“Why don’t you let the boy speak, Jameson?” A voice at the back cries.
“Yeah Jameson, keep your fat damn mouth shut!” A tall officer chimes in.
“I’ll shut YOU, you son of a bitch! Jameson screams and begins pushing through the crowd towards him.
Everyone begins talking at once. A few scuffles break out. An officer in the middle of the pack swoons and collapses to the pavement. A woman screams. You stand on the roof, smiling broadly. A very old man in a fedora climbs onto one of the squad cars and puts a megaphone to his mouth.
“Friends! Friends! We’ve got to have order here! We’re officers of the law! Everyone calm down!” He pleads.
One man gasps and claps his hands to his head.
“Ack, my ears!” he shouts.
“Order, order!” The old man continues to scream through the squealing megaphone.
“Would someone shut that old man up!?” Jameson cries as he puts the tall officer in a headlock and wrestles him to the ground.
“Mmph.” Agrees the tall officer.
“I’ll fix him!” A female detective says, and begins firing her gun in the general direction of the old man.
A few officers drop to their knees, giving cries of “shots fired” and spraying bullets into the crowd. A few others simply hurl their guns at whoever is nearby. A few others lie down and begin to moan, scrabbling in the dirt and tearing at their faces and hair.
Soon the commotion dies down, and the parking lot runs red with blood. You stand atop the bank with your arms crossed and a satisfied grin on your face. It’s time like these that make a man glad to be alive.
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