freedom costs money

Phillip John Mitchell walked slowly down the centre of the road, he was naked, his flesh black with soot and smoke, and red with blood, his head ached on one side and his brow felt wet. Smoke and flames wrapped him in their silent embrace before the wind chased them away, the scene cleared briefly, and he saw he was not the only one; others were moving, trying to stand looking about them in dazed and calm acceptance. Then wind turned back on itself and the scene was gone, there was Mitchell, the road, and that far away ringing in his ears that was all he could hear…

Chapter 7

On his knees with his head against the wall Jeffrey could only listen to what went on around him. His hands were held behind his back with a plastic tie. It was twenty minutes since it had been confirmed from inside the contaminated zone that yes, it was just a case of cows falling from the sky and not the next 911. Gloria had been attempting to negotiate his release with the medic who was tending to her head wound.

The Zero Hour, a random Chapter.
DCI Brecon Beacon looked out of the window of the luxury suite of the Cheshire Prussian Hotel, on the expensive side of Park lane. Outside the sun was barely making itself known despite the fact that it had been up for 23 minutes, by Beacon’s watch. Dull, half-hearted rain threw itself limply against the pane of glass and below maybe a hundred reporters pushed and shoved around the entrance to the Hotel. Four overwhelmed policemen were patiently loosing their voices shouting for the photographers to get back. Press, can’t lock ‘em up, can’t beat ‘em up…

lang=EN-GB>When the crying subsides she is on the floor, her knees wet from the
tea she is sitting in. She
has soaked up the tea and shampooed the carpet, carefully, fanatically
scrubbing the stain inwards so as to avoid a tide mark. style='mso-spacerun:yes'> Then, for sake of simplicity and her own
peace of mind she sits for half an hour holding a hair dryer over the damp
patch. She is just about satisfied and
when quarter past three lang=EN-GB> comes and it is time to leave.

lang=EN-GB>September the eleventh 2002, and in her spacious and well lit south
facing sitting room Ruth Madsen still sits on the arm chair of the very
endearing three piece suite. In her hand
is the third cup of tea that day, on top of the three cups of coffee. style='mso-spacerun:yes'> She sits rigidly upright in a wide invitingly
soft armchair designed to have the legs pulled up from the floor and curled up
on the seat, the arms have extra cushioning for the head to rest on in one of
the many abstract but extremely comfortable positions that can be achieved in
such a luxuriously comfortable piece of furniture. style='mso-spacerun:yes'>

Q1. How many cows does it take to change the world?
Q2. Is it alright to murder Simon Cowell as long as it's in an ironic fashion.
Q3. 23?
Q4. Who's more likely to save the human race?
a) The President of the united states?
b) The cross atlantic intelegence community?
c) A hopeless alcoholic?
d) None of the above, the human race will either be saved or it won't. But the above may play a part in either of these eventualities as and when they occur.