An unemployed ventriloquist is slouched on a park bench
a crumpled blue suit
leaves gather about his feet.
He scatters crumbs and lends his voice to the pigeons which gather round

"Excuse me love, that's my crust"
"Get out of it you horrible old git"

"Alright darling, come here often?"

"Oi Mister, this bread's stale"

The dialouge becomes lewder, more violent, bizzare, unhinged
he leans foward on his seat, his voice rising in volume and emotion
The ventriloquist is shouting, stabbing the air with an outstreched finger, face red, veins throbbing in his temples.
Passers-by adjust their paths to avoid him, making detours across the ornamental lawns
shoot nervous glances in his direction.
The pigeons feign disinterest....

NEXT!