The Bomb Idea

A jittery everyman, already primed by screaming headlines that Bolshevik bogeymen skulk among decent folk, locks eyes on a languid pipe-smoker whose spherical parcel glints like ordnance in the noon glare. Each swivel of the stranger’s wrist—slow, almost sensual—buffs the metallic orb until it gleams with apocalyptic promise. Our hero ricochets through city canyons, streetcars, amusement arcades, convinced the fuse is already smoldering behind him; yet every backward glance finds the smoker closer, the pipe now a sly grin, the bomb tucked like a sleeping heart against his coat. Panic escalates into a delirious waltz of mistaken intent: shadows lengthen like accusatory fingers, shop-window reflections fracture into a kaleidoscope of paranoia, the soundtrack of urban life distorts into a staccato drumroll. At the crescendo the pursued corners his nemesis on a pier where gulls shriek like air-raid sirens—only to discover the device is no red menace but a champagne-shaped firework, a carnival sun destined to burst into harmless tinsel. The explosion blooms overhead, a chrysanthemum of colored sparks that baptizes the trembling hero in confetti, leaving him blinking at the absurdity of his own terror while the pipe-smoker tips his hat and strolls into the night, mission accomplished: fear itself detonated into laughter.