"Come out now. You are completely surrounded." A red-faced man in a overdressed uniform called out from behind a police car.
By 5:45, most of the police force in London had encircled the Brittanica Pub. All of them had their arms at ready, aimed at any source of escape; windows, door, etc. It was a rather intimidating show of force. But, three hours later, they had seemed more idiotic than cunning.
Finally, one brave officer broke down the door. Expecting a hail of gunfire, most ducking down and bracing. When none came, they began to investigate. What they glimpsed sent even the most calm-stomached officer green.
A dozen of corpses, causing the air to be permeated with the sickly-sweet odor of death, were framed throughout the room. In one corner, a couple were frozen in a dance, their blissful expressions and fingers entwined for eternity. A band stood on a stage, so lifelike it seemed they would burst into cacophony at any moment. The pub owner sat wiping a grimy glass, while a customer sat on the other side of the bar, his hand raised for another glass. A drooping basset hound lay moping next to a dining threesome, flies thick on their uneaten food. And the most sickening sight was the figures themselves. They were covered in screaming, bloody people, in the throes of death, and a beaten and bloody British flag. They were children, wives, and politicians. They were butchers, soldiers, bakers. All dead or dying. This message of massacre was repeated on every mangled body in the room. They were so real, so lifelike that it seemed as if they were in the room themselves. And written on the wall, in bold, bloody letters, was NONE OF YOU ARE SAFE. I WILL KILL YOUR CHILDREN, YOUR WIVES, YOUR NEIGHBORS. THE ARTIST HAS SPOKEN.