On a sunny summer day at lunchtime Fortune Street Park is packed with office workers eating food bought from stalls on neighbouring Whitecross Street. There is barely room to move. Before I started to shoot from my luxury apartment in The Denizen overlooking the park, I made some handwritten calculations about where to aim in order to maximize the death toll. Killing the muppets in the park was like shooting fish in a barrel. I took them out like turkeys on a meat factory production line at Christmas. People were such idiots; many of them lay flat on the ground in a bid to escape the leaden death spewed by my guns. Others tried to run away and I laughed as I saw claret stain the white shirts of those I’d hit. They made weird twitching movements like spastics before they died.
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But success brings no happiness. Of course, he should give up the Deni-zen and move somewhere less blighted, where the air conditioning, as described by an elderly Chinese woman in the lobby, does not smell of the stench of corruption. ‘Bad men build this building,’ she warned Hermann, wagging an admonishing finger, as though he were somehow responsible. But the apartment proved unsellable and worse, unmarketable. However many times it was put on Rightmoves, the details failed to appear. Apparently it was the same with other Deni-zens. By then there was a stampede to offload, yet it was as though they were living in a phantom building. Hamptons. Foxtons. Felicity J. Green. Hermann tried them all and they failed, throwing up their hands. ‘We just can’t get it to upload. It may as well not exist.’