"When the member of a group proves particulary difficult, whether through one's behaviour or by blatant stupidity, given enough time, the pressure built by the on-going conflict will inevitably turn into an outburst.

Almost without fail, the first to voice the group's frustration with its difficult member will be the timidest and most soft-spoken of the lot. This was often because soft-spoken people tended to let things build up, moreso than other people who ranted, raved, yelled or otherwise resorted to violence outside the group, in day to day life. The individual in question would trudge through life silent and repressed, with the lid firmly on their emotions, until the pressure would build up strong enough to pop that lid off."

Zizzi was particulary proud of coming up with that theory. He fancied himself an observer of people, but mostly, he knew he was smarter than anyone else in the room, no matter what room he was in or what people were in it. He knew he could observe things that other poor souls, less enlightened than him, could not.

He rightfully knew that what he knew was right. His opinions on most matters changed like the winds, but he was always on the right side and had a burgeoning feeling of pity towards anyone on "the other side".

He kept himself well-informed, listening to everyone's variant on the truth until he finally hand-picked bits and pieces from everything he heard, mashed them together to a smooth paste, applied liberally and strutted around, proudly proclaiming it as the truth.

He had many admirers, Zizzi our pal, people who had been touched and impressed by his open-mindedness. People who were in awe of his intellectual prowess. There was a time when Zizzi would have been just like those people, guffawing at someone's superiority. Now, he was the superior one. People guffawed at him!

He had his detractors, of course. At first, whenever contradicted, Zizzi spat vitriolic rants at them, punctuating each idea with a shake of the fist, constructing his arguments from half-coherent shrieks. He defended himself by loudly declaring that he needn't defend himself at all. He was right! He knew! How could they be so blind?!

Now, he merely waved negative comments off. He needn't concern himself with critics, when his pack of loyal followers gravitated around him like a storm cloud and ripped apart those who dared aproach with ill intent.

After awhile, the cloud became a wall. And the wall never allowed anyone or anything to pass that would displease Zizzi, though Zizzi himself often threw things over the wall, where they'd bonk a random passer-by on the head. The passer-by's indignant remarks, of course, could not reach Zizzi past the wall.

Now, Zizzi repeated his opinions on a loop. His ideas never changed, they remained the same. They were good ideas-- they had attracted him a following, hadn't they? They had to be good ideas. He repeated them infinitely, and his dedicated listeners never grew tired of this. The walls thickened more and more with each new convert, until Zizzi could no longer move, being encased in adoration.

Finally, Zizzi passed away and his wall became naught but a solid block around his decaying corpse. Each member ofhis following hand-picked ideas and random tidbits from his words, put it together in a collage of contradiction and ambiguity and strutted around, proclaiming it as the truth. Zizzi wouldn't have muchcared for such behaviour, had he been alive.

Poor Zizzi.