Dead Famous

DAY FORTY-NINE. 12.05 a.m.

Woggle had taken to sleeping in his tunnel. He felt safe there. Safe from all the people who did not understand him. Safe to dig away at his hate. Planting it deeper with every blow of his pick. Watering it with his sweat.

Occasionally at night he would emerge to get water and to steal food. But more and more he existed entirely underground. In his tunnel.

The tunnel that he had dug to take his revenge.

Dig, dig, dig.

He would show them. He would show them all.

One evening, when the time had nearly come for what he had to do, Woggle took his empty sack and crept from his tunnel once more, but this time his mission was not for food. This time he made his way to a squat in London where he had once lived, a squat occupied by anarchists even stranger and more stern in their resolve than he was. These anarchists Woggle knew had the wherewithal to make a bomb.

When Woggle crept back to his tunnel just before the morning light the sack he carried was full.