Deacon Tremont bent low, clinched his elbows tight against his rib cage, and rolled through the glass doors of the Mile High Food Mall. He whirled gracefully on his skates, surveying the scene with a look of disdain. Having played hockey all his life, skates were his preferred method of locomotion. If he couldn't do it on skates, he didn't want to bother. People thought Deacon had lost his front teeth playing hockey, but forget that; he had yanked his front teeth out himself as a gesture of social commitment. Here's the deal: you can't eat meat if you don't have any teeth.

Leaning low, pumping his shoulders to the rhythmic tunes vibrating in his headset, Deacon neatly avoided contact with a young wide-eyed mother pushing a stroller, dipping past her into the main courtyard. It was the height of the lunch hour and the Food Mall was jam-packed with customers lingering over their mid-day entrees.

Deacon, as was his custom in similar forays, proceeded counter-clockwise. It was more than just technique; it was part of the message. He liked to go against the grain. Maintaining a smooth even pumping pace around the corners, Deacon's skates skimmed around the inner-perimeter, allowing him to up-turn every third table with complete devastation. One after another, the light plastic tables pitched over, scattering soft-drinks and Styrofoam containers of dead meat, dried blood, congealed grease and sundry by-products. It was enough to make him puke. The only reason he didn't was that he was absorbing the sights and sounds of utter chaos for purposes of future re-call. Because tonight it was all going to be on YouTube, including the screams, shouts, and curses. Out of conflict comes synthesis and that equals change. For Deacon, that was what the movement was all about.

Deacon had wanted to make three complete rotations but it looked like he was only going to make it around twice. He picked up speed and side-swiped a man in a suit who stood up and tried, valiantly, to lay hands on him. The business man flew back on his heels, clutching his crimson face, performing an NBA flop for the appreciation of the fans. Cheers and cries erupted and people started calling 9-1-1 on their cell phones.

The hue and cry of the crowd was indignant now. Who was going to pay for all the spoiled factory farm lunch meat? Security began converging on the scene, confirming Deacon's identification based upon Internet alerts posted to all malls in the metropolitan area.

Name: Deacon Tremont

Age: Nineteen (date of birth unconfirmed.)

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 155 pounds

Hair: Light-brown (metallic braids)

Eyes: Hazel

General appearance: Underweight

Distinguishing characteristics: No front teeth, multiple political movement tattoos.

Criminal record: Juvenile arrest record confirmed by fingerprints and DNA sampling.

Status: Warrants outstanding for multiple acts of misdemeanor criminal mischief, misdemeanor assault & battery, misdemeanor resistance to private sector security personnel, misdemeanor public disturbances and misdemeanor vandalism.

Preferred method of operation: Engages in random acts of disruption on behalf of the Furry Liberation Front (FLF).

Mall security cops, ripe for engagement, lined up on Deacon and started firing semi-automatic tranquilizer darts, tracking him with laser sights. No problem. Deacon swung low, picked up a food tray as a deflector shield and continued to rock and roll. A franchise trainee maliciously kicked a chair in Deacon's direction, causing him to spin off course and flame out. What a scab! Deacon cried out in surprise but managed to stretch out his hands to break his fall. Before his knees could touch ground, he had corrected his flight path, defiantly overturned one last table, and was now pumping furiously to make his exit. It was going to be close. Wham! A beefy mall cop slammed Deacon up against the glass windows. Pressing Deacon's face against the doors with one hand, while with the other, he reached behind his back for his flexi-cuffs.

Deacon would have been nabbed right then and there; but, miraculously, the doors suddenly activated to accommodate a startled group of Asian tourists who had no clue they were entering a scene of sheer bedlam. Quicker than a jumping-jack flash, Deacon spun his way clear and made his getaway. Huffing and puffing, the security boys cut across the landscaping and almost nailed him but Deacon reversed-out, and after that it was clear sailing. Skating backwards; fists held high in defiance, putting out the message: Go Vegan!