Stall
Guy walks into a market stall.
Nothing to see here.
Are you sure, though?
Guy walks into a market stall at high noon.
Boring.
Far from it.
Guy walks into a market stall at high noon with his hands in his pockets.
Unremarkable.
You're missing the point.
Guy walks into a market stall at high noon with his hands in his pockets, asks who the owner is.
So what?
PAY ATTENTION!
Guy walks into a market stall at high noon with his hands in his pockets, asks who the owner is and gets an answer to his question.
Yo, what's the point?
YOU'RE MISSING IT!
Guy walks into a market stall at high noon with his hands in his pockets, asks who the owner is and gets an answer to his question. Turns to face said proprietor, and aims a pistol at him. "Pay up."
"The City Council is the only body I owe money to, so unless you're here to buy some tomatoes, get the hell out. There's a line of hungry people behind you."
The revolver clicks: a warning. The man who previously had his hands in his pockets is serious about pulling the trigger.
The seller raises an eyebrow. Silence descends. It's like someone with an all-powerful remote pressed "pause" and the market obeyed. For several moments it looks like both men are going to stare each other down until they die of thirst.
And then it happens: sudden movement. A projectile. Impact. And displacement.
The man with the pistol stumbles back with a broken nose: not a single drop of blood hits any of the food in the stall. The gun has been dropped, kicked away from the reach of the curious onlookers: and everyone else suddenly springs to action.
"GET HIM!"
The stall owner watches the pursuit as he picks the nose-breaking potato off the ground and throws it into a plastic tin of water.
Food is the ultimate victor.
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Seamus
