Monday, seven p.m. Grudge was anxious and alert but far from terrified. His recent blog post on drunkards in the postal service had garnered a lot of angry attention. He had been tracked to the rathole by the vice-president of the postal workers’ union and some of the man’s cohorts. They were banging on the front door of the building asking—most aggressively—of anyone who would listen whether or not Grudge Galmount was at home. The said Mr. Galmount had chosen, at this fraught juncture, silence as his best mode of defence—and, as two extra precautions, he had switched off the lights and bolted the door. These bastards are preying on the weak, he moaned to himself, and to no one else in particular—having lately given up on God. He lay still, listening to the hubbub of the mini...