But what’s he really going to do? I imagine that he’ll spend the next three to eight months furiously beating his knob to a pulp jerking it to footage from the 1968 Democratic National Convention riots in Grant Park. You know, back when Chicago was a city he could get behind. One where the police policed. Maybe he’ll spend his days eating Arby’s sandwiches hoping to find a finger in his food. His finger.

When I came to, I was lying on my back on the dirty concrete, my tongue a bit swollen and tasting like I had swallowed a fistful of pennies. My fingertips were blackened and I was seriously thirsty.

I had just electrified myself for the second time, the first only knocking me back a few steps, but this time, it knocked me off my feet and I lay unconscious for a few minutes. I got up to try again.