Whenever I meet a rabid anarchist, I glance over their shoulder with a look of shock on my face and say, “Oh, my God!” Invariably, they turn around. Seeing nothing, they turn back to me, this time catching only a fleeting glimpse of my fist as it thunders into their soon-to-be-bloody face. I then gaze down upon them as they lie dazed along the sidewalk, spitting out teeth, stab my clenched fist high into the air and shout: “Anarchy rules!!!”
BILL
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