That was another good word. Well, there it was. All on fire. He would move on now, take his army with him. Find every kid. Burn them, eat them, smash them. All the clever ones.

A memory came back to him. Clever kids at that place. With all the other kids. Laughing at him.

What was that word? A powerful one. One he didn’t like.

School.

All the other kids laughing.

Well, look at me now. Boss. King. Lion. Killer . . .

He spread his arms wide, opened his mouth for a shout of triumph, but as usual nothing came out, just a low strangled growl.

They understood, though. His army. They raised their arms, shook their fists. The smarter ones, they shook weapons.

He looked over and saw that same man again, looking back at him. He hadn’t moved.

Fat man. Bald. White vest with a red cross on it. He knew the words.

Saint George.

Then he smiled. The man was him. It was a . . . What was it? A mirror? A window? Yes. He was Saint George. A crusader. That made him happy. To remember hard words like that.

You see. If he was sneaky . . . If he came around the side. The words were there, just hiding.

He had a plan. Crusade. He would go into the lands of the enemy and burn and kill and break. And his people would follow him.

He began to stamp up and down on the roof of the car, hammering out a rhythm with his big feet. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang, one two, one two . . . Come dance with me.

Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang, one two, one two . . .

His people joined in. Stamping up and down in the road. Their feet hammering the asphalt. Thud-thud-thud-thud . . .

The sound of an army marching. And that was what they were. They would march and they would kill and they would smash everything in their path.

He climbed down off the car and broke all its windows with his club. All the while stamping, one-two-one-two . . . And the more he stamped, the more he smashed, the more words came back to him, the more thoughts he could hold on to.

Everything he broke made him stronger.

He went into a frenzy, attacking every car in the road. Still stamping. It was the comforting sound of a machine.

Then he led them on. Back toward the battleground. The battle they had lost against the kids. They wouldn’t lose any more battles. They were too many now. They were too strong.

He was Saint George.

This city belonged to him.