I showed my friend my thunder contained in a matchbox. He smirked and signed ‘that was nothing’ – wait ’til I get a load of his lightning in a bottle. He whipped a bottle out of a pocket on his combat trousers and shook it. He unscrewed the lid, and, quick as a flash, the lightning shot out the neck and went straight through him. The few remaining hairs on his head were crispy and his skin charred. He was still smirking though. ‘Pretty cool’, I signed. ‘Pretty cool’.