"The market buildings in the square were the new police HQ, or rather army HQ, with the police as honored guests. Percy Fisher – communist, militant trade unionist, Englishman who’d defied conscription by fucking off to South Africa – had made the market his HQ and the police his guests, under lock and key, after they’d been denied use of their station. For three days this was the seat of the workers’ foredoomed dream republic, until the army forced its way in, freed the police, and mounted the stairs to arrest Fisher, who, for lack of any place left to fuck off to or any way of getting there, had put a bullet through his head. Arise, ye prisoners of starvation, but Percy Fisher has stood up for the last time. Now the troops and the police, enjoying the solidarity of the uniform, stood smoking and pointedly handling their weapons amidst the leavings and rinds and empty market shelves."