In fact, everybody in the palace has got a TNT-bundle of their own, too. They just haven’t really noticed it, until the situation was made metaphorically clear. Everybody in Syracuse has their own share of explosive. Every man, woman and child on the planet; even the innocent babes in their cradles. Everybody carries their share of the global megatonnage; they’re never without it, even when they somehow manage to forget about it. They just lug it around, day in day out, because they have to; because it’s the postmodern condition. The cost of it nearly bankrupts them, and the weight wears calluses on their souls, but nobody dwells on the horror of it much. It’s the only way to stay sane.