He was not paranoid, but he still thought everyone was out to kill him. Out in the street, the doppler effect of a passing subwoofer bass was enough to make him duck. So he watched the scene unfold on television in awe. The men were moving the wounded across a field of fire. They zigged and zagged in a serpentine to avoid the snipers. It was, in its own way, a beautiful example of athletic motion. It was a dance choregraphed in cordite and blood, with the passenger hanging in the balance. He was not a third wheel at the prom. He had a partner too. For him it was Totentanz.
.
“Somebody stop the music,” he said alone, in his living room, to no one but the cat.