Glanced up. A group of about a dozen people walk down the line handing out neon-colored flyers. I can tell right away that they're not American: not a bright white sneaker or cargo shorts in sight. They are all incredibly tall, skinny, and somehow different. It's like even his bone structure is weird.
"Oh, I'll take one of those." Melanie picks up a ruffle and uses it to fan her neck.
"What does it say?" I ask, looking around the group. Here, in touristy Stratford-upon-Avon, they stand out like fiery orange poppies in a field of green.
Melanie looks at the brochure and wrinkles her nose. "Guerilla Will?"
A girl with the kind of magenta streaks that Melanie has been coveting approaches us. "It's Shakespeare for the masses."
I look at the card. Says Guerrilla Will. Shakespeare Without B
