Friday, February 10, 2017


I'm sitting at a conference not far from the exploding man.
He has already exploded once, targeting a harmless presenter for his presentation of statistics that the exploding man does not value.
The presenter was talking about perception, and not truth: the statistics he presented are the ones that everybody uses, so they have the effect he is discussing, whether or not they are correct.
The exploding man disagrees even more with the next speaker, a local MP. The exploding man has changed colour. He has become very red and very shiny, and he has started to stab his sheaf of papers very hard with a pen. He is frowning and clenching his mouth in a downward grimace. Head in hands, he holds his tension under quivering control, leaking twitches and harsh shuffles, scribbling frantically, biting his nails, and crossing his legs and uncrossing them.
His forehead is ploughed with furious furrows; his eyes have disappeared into angry sinkholes somewhere in his face.
The speaker he objects to is just winding up his presentation.
Now the exploding man has his spectacles on. He leans back, arms tensed against the table, like a catapult ready to spring.

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