While on my way through Midsummer Common to fish I passed three young men sitting on a bench. They had stayed up all night, and were now enjoying the sensation of being the last men left alive. (He who walks the streets of his town in the first light believes himself its conqueror for the rest of the day.) They passed judgment:
A. Funny old life, fishin'.
B. Fishin', who's fishin'?
C. He's fishin'!
B. Fishin'? At five in the morning! The Evil Bastard!