Mister Scribbles

 The Emperor Commodus would wave severed heads at the Senatorial box, an unmistakable message.   https://misterscribbles.blogspot.com/2024/07/death-of-commodus.html   All's well that ends well.  

This is one tough cat.  Flamma will never fight again, and Ferro will probably lose his right arm. But the lion is as good as dead.    It's all in the eyes.  

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar. Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seem...

 They know they can hold their audience only so long. The show's got to have a snap ending, quick! If they started searching the whole damn river it might take all night. So they're sniffing for a scape-goat to end things with a bang. Watch. They'll catch Montag in the next five minutes! " "But how--" "Watch." The camera, hovering in the belly of a helicopter, now swung down at an empty street. "See that?" whispered Granger. "It'll be you; right up at the end of that street is our victim. See how our camera is coming in? Building the scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right now, some poor fellow is out for a walk. A rarity. An odd one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of queer ducks like that, men who walk mornings for the hell of it, or for reasons of insomnia. Anyway, the police have had him charted for months, years. Never know when that sort of information might be handy. And today, it turns out, it's very u...

 (How is it that you ain't dead, General)?

  https://youtu.be/Fp5t2yIiR-U Music by Michael William Balfe, The Bohemian Girl. 1843. Lyrics by,...wait for it...Alfred BUNN!