Policemen sprout metal spines. Screaming and rout: "We are Spartoi! Fuck you, pigs! Protectors of politicians and bankers and immigrants!" This mob doesn’t agree on everything, but it knows what it doesn’t like. The police line breaks, and the mob moves on. No interest in staying to torment the cops. Obstacle removed. Nearby, someone sets fire to a car by way of celebration. It’s a Bentley. I know the man who owns it, an Austrian who claims some sort of hereditary title but can’t get the courts to acknowledge it at home. The flames are orange and grey, a wicked nacreous silver that speaks of bad chemicals. And that’s a new phase, a burning phase, and the mob upgrades. I am washed in it, carried on the flood. What else should I do? At the edges there are fires burning, accelerants and bonfires.