“Oh ho, ho, we’ve been waiting for you. Please take a seat over there, just next to Ronald Reagan.”
Ayesha Swanson struggled to keep her lips tight, her hands clasped behind her back.
“That’s not funny, Mister Mo,” she said quietly, trying to keep their conversation from the assorted police officers gathered in florescent jackets, anxiously watching the crowd of revellers as they gathered in the streets.
A sign fluttered in the cooling breeze, a makeshift banner exclaiming the simple phrase, ‘The Bitch is Dead‘. She watched it for a moment, tracking it with her eyes, listening to the sound of shouts and cheers, the first strains of impromptu music filling the air.
Apparently there were a couple of fellows with a double bass and guitar up the road, chanting and singing proclamations of the passing of the former Prime Minister.
Mister Mo laughed merrily to himself.
“Come on, little bud, you know it’s true.”