“22, 22, 22…” Erect posture, clean-shaven face, well-manicured, nails and suited up in a spot-on pinstripe grey suit, nothing calls his sanity into question–except for the numbers he keeps muttering to himself like some mantra: “22, 22…”
When a curious and officious pedestrian challenges him he sidesteps but to no avail. A stalemate of sorts. Only that when the challenger persists, drawing closer, too dangerously close, three spontaneous holes adorn his back. No one in the park has to teach the others how to take flight.
The mutterer tucks the smoking gun away, buttons up and resumes count; “23, 23…”