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.
I scrolled through to the end of the very long and angry screed without bothering to read it word for word. I decided not to look at dozens of other unopened messages with headers such as: The Denizen Really Sucks, Taylor Wimpey Ripped Me Off, Taylor Wimpey Unfinished Estates Shoddy Workmanship & Crumbling Homes, If This Is A Luxury Apartment Then I’m The Queen Of Sheba, and The Denizen’s Feng Shui Is Killing Me. I wanted to die during orgasm but the daily flood of complaints from my fellow ghost home owners were a depressing distraction from my erotic fantasies.