John Murran came in, no knock or anything. “Dylan, we have reports that the police are searching this area. Nothing more specific than a couple of blocks, but they’re on to something. We’ve got to go. Now.”

“Look at it,” said Dylan. “No, that came out wrong. I meant to say: Behold.”

“You know you’re going to have to leave that here,” said John. “And you knew this would happen soon enough. I don’t know why you even made it.”

“That,” said Dylan, “is because you don’t understand Art, Mr. Murran. Look at it. Listen to what it tells you. Liberty is hard to make. Liberty is fragile.”

“Uh-huh,” said John.



“Liberty is worth building even when you yourself don’t expect to be around to enjoy it. Liberty is under threat from all the fucking policemen who keep barging into people’s houses uninvited.”

“We really do need to go now,” said John.

“Oh no, one more thing. I built this statue around a very small bomb that Mr. Young designed especially for me. If it is disturbed by even the slightest touch - which given the visitors we’re expecting I have no doubt it will be - the result will be quite spectacular. A toothpick bomb might not pack quite the metallic punch of a nail bomb, but the principle is more or less the same. And do you know why I did this, Mr. Murran?”

John was facepalming too hard to answer.



“So that everybody knows Liberty will fucking kill anybody who messes with it. That is what I call art.”

