His finger let it fly, and the ball of pulp flew through the air, soaring majestically in defiance of the glass tyrant’s mountainy minions who could but sit still in terror and awe of the flying parchment wrecking ball of justice. With the inevitability of entropy, the ball hit the tip of the top glass of the back pile of utensils of inebriation. The ball bounced and went off to the side, falling beneath the counter as the top glass achingly leaned back, threatening to fall. Handy leaned closer, eyes narrowing. ‘Come on, you rotten bastard,’ he thought at it. ‘Make my day!’