For the rest of it's flight, Peter terrorised the remaining survivors on the plane. They had huddled up in the first class cabin like herd animals under assault by a predator. Peter kept appearing at different windows to flap his arms like chicken wings and split the air with a crow, or grit his teeth viciously and feign as if he was about to punch through the glass. So long as he heard shrieking he was happy and then vanished as quickly as he came. He kept the fools at the very edge of their wits by making sure there was no rhyme or reason to when he might appear; sometimes after ten minutes, sometimes after ten seconds.

When the plane touched down, the airport was swarming with special forces so Peter stayed outside for Moira like a child waiting for his friend to get out of detention. He kept mouthing at her to hurry up from a safe distance, pointing towards his watch and throwing her impatient and blaming gestures. Unfortunately she was kept a very long while for questioning and was even eventually escorted to a police station.

When he dared to hover by the window of the room they held her in, Peter heard his wife rather childishly telling on all of the crimes he had committed over the past month. She was a sobbing wreck as she said that she did not know where Peter was now and whether or not her children were alive or dead.

Peter rolled his eyes. He decided to make a day of London while they grilled her.

First he went to the Natural History museum, which was full of annoying children who kept touching the displays. So he quietly kidnapped them one by one when they were lost in the thick of a crowd, covering their mouths and backing them behind a pillar or into some shadows to slit their throats. He hid their bodies in various places. Eventually the fat useless bitch in charge of these children, who had been becoming more and more visibly distressed with the children disappearing, screamed in horror as she recognised one of their corpses propped up on display in a glass cabinet. It was an exhibit for dodos – Peter found this amusing because like the dodos, these children were no more. A great scene was caused and here, chuckling, was when Peter made his leave. He would go on to think fondly of the Natural History Museum because of this experience even though he thought the place was otherwise shit.

Next he went on a stroll through Hyde Park and looked for foreign tourists to make uncomfortable. The trick here was to act as friendly as possible and pretend they were the ones making mistakes. His chance came when a cheerful Japanese couple asked him to take their photo, so he agreed with much enthusiasm, but then here was the game: Peter kept pretending that the shots weren't coming through because, as he claimed the camera said, they were constantly 'caught blinking'. He pretended to be very upset about this and insisted on trying 'just one more time' over and over again, never letting them go. Near the end he suggested that they just open their eyes wider, and he expected to be busted here, but the sweet couple did as they were asked. So Peter let out a mocking whoop: "yes! It came through! Oh, and it's such a good picture!". When they hurried back over, grinning with such relief and gratefulness, Peter pretended to stumble and dropped the camera on purpose into the nearby lake. "Oh no, oh sorry! Oh I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Then he left.

Finally, as the day wound down, Peter got his hands on a machine gun and flew through the busy London streets, raining down lead from the skies and slaughtering thousands upon thousands of people in a crimson circus of carnage. Then he hijacked a red bus and ramped it into Big Ben in a great fiery explosion, like a British 9/11. All the while he wore his shirt pulled up over his nose so nobody could figure out his identity and he got away scot-free.

Only after this jam packed day of fun was lazy Moira let out of the police station, and by good luck, Peter swung by just in time to meet her. He had picked up a pork bun and some bubble tea from the pathetic little Chinatown London had to offer, too busy eating to be mad at her. "Took your time, huh? Whatever let's go, Wendy's is this way. It's the long way but I want to avoid Chinatown because it smells terrible and the floor is slippery. I don't like the people there either. They've probably already repopulated after what I did."

But Moira had frozen up upon seeing him. She began to shake. Her voice, when she spoke, was but a trembling whisper he barely heard. "Where are the children, Peter?"

Peter shrugged, blowing a derisive puff of air from his lips. "The fuck should I know? I'm not their babysitter. Come on we really need to hurry up."

Still Moira did not move. "Peter. If you don't tell me where the children are. Right now. Then I'm going to shout for the police. I-I'll do it..."

Peter's food fell to the floor in his rush to apply the quickest and most deserving black eye he'd ever gave Moira in all of their married lives. "Wallop bang, bangarang!" He did not care that people were watching. In fact, glad of the audience, he made sure to wind up his arm and give her another one to match. "Whump whomp, turbo stomp!" Now her face had his trainer patterns on it.

As Moira rolled on the floor, covering her broken nose, Peter turned to the jeering crowd and soaked it up, nodding his head. One of them cried something about a plane. They knew. They'd figured him out. Which was much more than the pigs could say. "You're telling me a five billion dollar investigation was launched because of this?" Peter asked, gesturing towards himself with both thumbs like a heel wrestler relishing the crowds hate. "Well why doesn't somebody just shoot me in the head?"

"BANG!"

Surprised as Peter was to hear a bullet crack the air, he easily ducked and dodged it. Much more surprising was who he saw after turning, with impressed delight, towards the source of the noise. A young boy who had stepped out from the crowd.

Dripping wet and draped in seaweed, but very much alive, stood Jack with Maggie besides him. She was no longer in her harness and Jack's bandages had been cast away. Moira shrieked like a very woman and ran over to hug them, embracing Jack so hard the pistol was knocked from his hands. Peter caught it smoothly and swirled it about his finger, holstering it in his waistline and winking competitively at Jack, who only glared over his mothers shoulder.

"It's good to see you, son," Peter said rather honestly. "I'm impressed you made it this far. Did you swim back alone? Or were you picked up by a-"

"Daddy, I made something for you! You're gonna love this," Maggie cut in, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a shell. "It's a hug! The next time we fall out of a plane by accident, you won't have to be scared..."

Peter might have smiled for his son, but he did not smile for his daughter. "That doesn't mean anything. I'm not your fucking mother and I won't pretend to be happy about you saying gay shit that doesn't make any sense. Now would everybody just SHUT UP!?" He shouted, rounding on the crowd (who were all still watching his family affairs). "Get us outta here would you Moira? I want a phone call with my wife."

This might have seemed like an extremely odd thing to say, but Peter had many mistresses. One of them was a Slovakian immigrant who owned a black cab service here in London, and he was illegally married to this one. What he meant was that he wanted to phone her up for a free cab to Wendy's and that's exactly what he did. It seemed his near acts of filicide on the plane had blown over because there was not any fuss after this. Everyone sat in silence: Moira fearful, Jack cold, and Maggie ignorant. Peter did not like to see her moving freely again.

During the drive, he leaned back from the drivers seat (he was driving) to have a word with Jack. "Son, you're becoming a man. I still intend to feed you to the crocodile, and I hope you still intend on trying to kill me too. But let's put that aside for a moment. Look: if the one time ever catch me, then you'll be in charge." Taking his hands off the wheel, Peter pulled his top off, then his white string vest. "Here. This is my very special wife beater, so you can keep Moira and Maggie in line."

"PETER, THE ROAD!"

A huge truck blared it's horn like a great wall of iron. Peter had already flown out the window before the cab crunched up against the truck, quickly resulting in screaming, triggered car alarms, and piled up vehicles. Flames began to spread. Peter watched from the sky as Moira, Jack and Maggie, all terribly bloodied, were pulled out of the upside down car by some pussy do-gooders. Then the broken boot fell open, the black and blue corpse of the cab driver he'd battered to death falling out, and a wave of screeching hysteria passed through the crowd.

Peter cackled and clapped his hands, then flicked his fingers because of how sick the whole situation was. He crowed his best crow, flapping his arms like chicken wings, and called to his family: "last one to Wendy's is a faggot!"

"You're a fucking faggot for that gay thing you do with your arms," Jack yelled after him. Peter pretended not to hear and flew off because he couldn't think of how to address that statement. He continued to crow in the future but stopped flapping his arms like chicken wings.