Splat.

It was one of the strangest things to happen to the old girl. Mind you, she's much older now and such a thing occurring these days may have scared her to death. Her guards were equally scared, for her protection of course. Their mouths would be open wide as they dropped their lances and rushed to intervene. She would of course have no idea at all what the hell was happening. Neither would the crowd, who could only watch as a large red sphere was hurtling toward Queen Elizabeth's head.

Backtrack. May 7th, 1981. It has been two days since the death of Irish Republican Bobby Sands. After 66 days, Mr. Sands body had just given out. The Irish prisoners who joined him in a hunger strike all shared the same values, the grandest of which was an Ireland free of British rule. The United Kingdom was furious, they called Sands a lunatic and a terrorist. The Irish citizens stood by Bobby, even electing him a member of the House of Commons while in prison. It was a political hunger strike, a showdown between criminals and Margaret Thatcher. The 'Iron Maiden' stood fast, making speech after speech about the crimes of the Irish and the ridiculousness of the Hunger strike. Every word she spit brought sympathizers to the Irish cause- Has this woman no heart? Weeks went by, the doctors would shake their heads at the horrible visage of Bobby, lying on his back in the cot, looking disdainfully at a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage and toast, steaming on a table beside him.

Eventually, Bobby Sands passed away. His body a shell of nothingness save but a heart full of conviction. The leader of the strikers was the first to go. Ireland rightfully mourned. England mourned as well, with the death of Bobby Sands came the death of the idea of a kind United Kingdom. Thatcher had murdered it with her rhetoric and lack of compassion. To the Irish, the Sands' withering away was the beginning of the end for the English in Ireland. For one day, the world turned it's eyes to one nation, and in particular, to the life and death of one man. Reactions were damning. There were worldwide protests. Protests of sadness for Bobby's death, and protests of anger towards Thatcher and more specifically; the country of England.

The sovereign of this nation found herself to be enjoying a trip of goodwill in the country of Norway on the seventh day of May. She had decided to get out- to meet the people. Her advisers advised against this, but she blew them off with the flick of a wrist. She was the queen, everybody loved her. Or so she thought. Once out amongst the commoners, there was indeed a great many admirers, but every so often could be heard 'You killed Bobby!' and 'Murderer!' Of course she was aware of what was happening in Ireland at the time, but that had nothing to do with her. She was but a symbol of a nation which was now a boogieman. Nervousness crept into the minds of her guards. They began to crowd around the queen.

'For Bobby!' came a cry. The queen heard this and prepared herself. A large round red object was lobbed from somewhere in the crowd. She stepped aside as this object hit the ground and ruptured, spilling red liquid all over the cobble stones of the street. The remnants of a balloon could be seen. The queen was hurriedly shuffled into her car by the guards.

A shallow gesture to be sure, throwing a balloon full of tomato sauce at the Queen of England. But Bobby meant something to some people. To the republicans of Ireland, he was their martyr. To the English, he was their shame. To the world, he was a man who died for his belief that sometimes all it takes is one action, to change a great many things.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day - May your home always be too small to hold all your friends.