When footage of Williams got out, the public went into an uproar. NONE OF YOU ARE SAFE was a pretty clear message. Rory sighed. He took another bite of his slowly dissipating donut. The police department had been flooded with hysterical people claiming to see the Artist walking down their street. Like a mass serial killer, who was being targeted by every FBI, policeman, and CIA member in England, would be waltzing down some street corner. The ridiculousness of it all made him sigh again and rub vigorously at his sore eyes.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Another one? Rory thought, contemplating quitting. He picked up the receiver and attempting to suppress his weariness and agitation, he inquired, "Hello?".

A rasping, hissing voice overlapped the static. "I am the Artist. I would like to inform your........police men (he remarked this in a sneering tone.).. that I will be at the Brittanica Pub tonight at exactly 5:45 p.m. I don't think you need a more formal invitation, do you?" He screeched. A maniacal laugh echoed through, and the line went dead.