The mall was busy that next morning, a Saturday, and the colonnade was a bustling hive of activity. If he could get their attention to the sky with any sort of practical means, he could draw their eyes upward with a little incentive. The shots rang out among the throngs of last minute Super Bowl shoppers and scattered them. Each shot was a

blasphemy to the patron saint of accuracy, and Randall had stopped soon after starting. Their lives now endangered, the shoppers looked skyward. Randall yelled, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep or nourishment,

“People! Look! Look up! Do you see? We need a plan! The end is here!”

Several people pointed, others stared, and Randall knew his message had gotten across. Talk began to spread, and he calmed down. He had sat against the railing when the collective voice of the crowd rose to the roof,

“That’s Randy! He hasn’t been at the store!”

Part of him could have reloaded and taken much more steady shots, but most of him had died. Nullifying any feelings of driving purpose that had fueled his raging campaign. The interest in what Randall was doing on the roof died down and the crowd moved as one unit into the mall, cash in their pockets and wealth on their minds. There was much to be bought, and little time before the Super Bowl.

On the roof, the temperature rose to alarming degrees, and Randall was thirsty. He climbed down and walked inside to get a drink. He thought of his stupid, failed plan, he though of what was to come, but mostly he thought of Prudence. In the distance he heard an intercom announcement cut above the clamor of consumerism. Shorts and bathing suits were fifty percent off for a limited time only.