Disclaimer: Don't own and never will

Roger Osbourne nervously licked his lips and looked around.

In the dark streets below, he could see nothing. No signs of Estovakian patrols or police. Nobody who was likely to give him any trouble.

He looked at his spray can and resisted the urge to sigh. Was it really worth risking his life to do this? If the Stovies caught him, they'd still shoot him as a member of the resistance just the same.

He looked up at the billboard in front of him. It was a poster of a young, smiling child (with distinctly model perfect, airbrushed features and brown hair) holding the Emmerian flag. He was hugging onto a protective muscular father figure in an Estovakian Air Force uniform holding back black, shadowy figures with sharp claws trying to grab the child.

The tagline at the bottom read "The Estovakian-Emmerian Greater Prosperity Sphere. Protecting us from the wolves of the world!"

It was actually a pretty funny line, all things considered. It was the Stovies who had invaded. The Stovies who were the wolves, no matter what they liked to tell people. Greater Prosperity Sphere? What a joke!

Some people actually brought into the idea, which was even funnier. His neighbour (A grouchy old woman who ironically called herself a patriot) had told him quite happily that "The Estovakian's were the best thing to have ever happened to this country." And that "Those deadbeat liberals were ruining Emmeria and the Estovakian's were going to put everything back to the way things were supposed to be!"

Roger had just silently nodded and pretended to agree with her. It was easier and safer than arguing. (He had no doubt that she would happily report him for dissent if he said otherwise.)

A can rattled in the darkness. Roger whipped his head around nervously, half expecting to see an Estovakian patrol or policeman on his rounds.

It was a cat. A bedraggled and skinny white thing. Eating what it could from an almost empty can of sardines. He let out a sigh of relief.

"You scared me there puss," he said with a relieved smile on his face. The cat just looked at him with a puzzled expression on it's face, before returning to it's meal. He looked up at the poster once more.

This was insane! He was a seventy year old man, not some teenager or feral child. Surely they were better suited to running about painting graffiti and vandalising Estovakian property like this. They were younger, faster and (although he hated to admit it) healthier than him. They could run away and climb and actually get away. All Roger could do was hobble. And in this light, it was hard for him to see anything anyway. It would be just his luck to trip on something borderline invisible in the dark. (At least for him.)

He nervously licked his lips. If he were a younger man, then he would actually be able to do something useful. But then again, the Stovies had rounded up all the young men that they could find to work on the new fortifications going up around the city.

He gave himself a shake. He had been going mad staying at home and doing nothing. Listening to Emmerian Independence Radio was an easy way out. He was a man of action! There were men and women across the country risking their lives, actually doing something that mattered against the Estovakian military. He might not be able to do much, but he was able to do something!

He raised his spray can and began to paint his words of choice.

He had considered writing the phrase 'Go dance with the angels!', but had decided that it was too long.

Besides, he wasn't some teenager following the latest trends. The phrase may have caught on amongst the youth, but, as his body was fond of reminding him, he was no youth.

Besides, he wanted there to be no ambiguity as to what he was saying.

With an almost practised ease (too much time in his much mispent youth he reflected to himself ruefully) he was finished. He paused for a moment to admire his handiwork.

Written in big red letters was the word bullshit. He grinned. There was no mistaking what he meant there!

Capping the spray can, he slowly hobbled home. Thankfully the streets were mostly deserted. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an Estovakian patrol in the distance. (Thankfully not close enough to see him. Or at least consider him to be worth investigating any further.) And he thought he spotted one of the feral children watching him from a distance, but he wasn't sure and they left him alone.

Fumbling slightly with his keys as he reached his front door, he slipped in unnoticided. The hour was late and even the curtain twitchers were firmly in their beds. He quickly let out his black cat and went to bed.

ACACACACACACACACACACACACACACACACAC

He awoke the next morning to the sound of a heavy hand knocking on his door.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming down," he grumbled as he stumbled out of bed and made his way downstairs. He opened the door to see a nervous young Estovakian Military Policeman standing there.

"Good morning officer," he said as he squinted into the sunlight. "What do you mean, waking folk up at this time and rousing the elderly from their beds?"

The young man swallowed nervously.

"Sorry to bother you sir-"

"It's obviously important, so get to it," he said in his best sergeant-major voice. (It had been forty years, but sergeant-major's hadn't changed much it seemed) The young man swallowed again.

"Well, last night, vandals from the local terrorist group were active in a nearby street. Just some graffiti you understand, but we're hoping that it will lead us to something bigger."

"Vandals!" Roger spat contemptuously. "No respect, these kids. None at all. Why when I was a young man, I never dreamed of making such trouble!"

"Yes sir. Well as you can see, we're making inquiries to see if anyone saw anything. Did you see anything or anyone suspicious last night at all?"

Roger frowned and pretended to think. A part of him was tempted to make something up, to send them off on a wild goose chase. But that would be stupid and not really worth it. Especially if someone actually HAD seen something.

"I thought that they had security cameras here?" he asked with a frown, waving his hand vaguely at the street. (The idea had been suggested a few years ago, but had ultimately been rejected.)

"No sir," the young Estovakian said nervously. Roger was almost amused.

"Well I haven't seen anything," he said, shaking his head. "Only thing I saw last night was the cat, wanting to be let in."

As if waiting for him to be mentioned, said cat began to meow at his feet. Roger leaned over and rubbed his head.

"My daughter's cat." he said as he gave the cat his morning fuss. "She's on a six month contract out in Yuktobonia, so he's my responsibility."

"I see sir," the young man said and he swallowed once more. "Well if you happen to remember seeing or hearing anything-"

"I'll be sure to let you know," Roger said. "Young hoodlums. I hope you give'm what's for!"

"Yes sir," the young man said, before handing him a business card. "Well if you should remember anything that you think might be helpful, please call this number."

"Will do," Roger said, before closing the door. He looked at the card and snorted with amusement as he hobbled his way into the kitchen. The irony was not lost on him. Opening a tin of cat food, he began to plot once more. Now what other posters could benefit from his particular brand of resistance…