About fucking time.

[Nicks a pear from the market. Radical anti-capitalism in action.]

Fucking weather. This meant to be July?

Left me coat indoors cos I didn't think I'd fucking need it, did I?

[Passing sirens on the surface. John ducks behind an umbrella and lights a cigarette. Being back in London proper meant new risks.]

[And far too many CCTV cameras.]

Hah. x.com/YourBanditQuee…

[John takes a train down to the Pride parade. It's a good distraction from the scheming and paranoia.]

[It's early when the cat finds him, so naturally John is in the pub. He scoops it up and avoids losing an eye in the process.]

[He takes the feather. After handling Lucifer's, he can't help noting how weak and limp it seems, but John knows an Ace when he finds one.]

[The feather is tucked away beneath his watch strap and the cat is shooed off. He leaves without paying.]

Fucking Nazis.

Never leave one unmaimed.

'Course if they were smart all the Legions of Darkness™ and all their merry men would just sit back for a few centuries and wait.

We're all perfectly capable of self destruction on our own, thanks.

Pissing it down. London comes to life when the weather's complete shite.

Every city has its energy. London's is misery.

Nightmare for a fag, but I've got bigger things in mind.

John. A proper squire! And who? and who? which way looks he?