short-sighted puffin, which paused and circled a time or two, possibly drawn by a color scheme that in Puffinland shrieked ‘Come Hither.’ Discovering the cheat in short order and retaining a sense of injury, the bird continued on its way, winging toward Reykjavik, careening above streets, darting past bonfires and police vans, swooping over a massive assemblage of protesters who were banging pots and pans and yelling at the tops of their lungs outside the Parliament building. The noise only increased as the former Prime Minister-cum-Central Banker emerged from a morning of hearings and deliberations. It reached such a crescendo that the already agitated puffin was thoroughly unnerved. With airspeed, altitude, and atmospheric conditions miraculously combining, the petrified bird released a full payload of guano, scoring a direct hit on the beleaguered politician, who found himself at once dripping with bird shit and facing an infinity of placards which read (in Icelandic) “Helvítis*Fokkin*Fokk” and (in English) “Just*Getting*Started.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With roots in the ‘60’s and hopes in the Occupy Movement,
I.C. Springman is an absolute nobody
who believes that an understanding of global financial arrangements
and their impact on ordinary people in every walk of life
is the first step toward altering those arrangements
for the benefit of everybody everywhere.
No matter what they tell you -
Another world is possible.
To Iceland, With Love Page 26
