News-style contra new style

Keith was walking down the high street whistling a tune to himself - eyes closed, no problems. Turning a corner* he started - a man selling newspapers across the road. Forgetting himself, Keith dashed eagerly across the pavement, not for the first time taking his life into his own hands.

"Read all about it! It's the new style!" cried the paper-man, waving a rolled up newspaper against the skyline.

"The news-style?" asked Keith, his voice hushed with awe.

"No, no, lad, the new style" replied the paper-man.

"No, the new style" chimed the people on the street, who had all stopped going about their daily business to stare at these disgraceful scenes.

- Incredible, thought Keith. I've been out of prison for two days and already I'm mishearing people! He flushed crimson, clearly furious, before knocking the paper-man to the ground, sending his newspapers flying into the air. The crowd hissed.

Thinking of the future, worried about the past - Keith's fury had reminded him of the fury which had landed him in the clink to start with, and the fury which broke him out. It was a fury called Frankie.

Oh, and the paper-man? Without going into too much detail - the next twelve years showed that he never really recovered. The crowd abides.

* For most, a difficult task. Keith, however, had honed a technique over years which allowed him to negotiate up to three bends a minute with his eyes closed.

Soul Destroyers - Armadillo