Shame to waste some bread. You pant with exhaustion, your foe lies dead before you. The crowd, hushed. You sit down in Sigall Hasterson's blood and tear through the bloodstained bread bag. You pull hunks off of the abused loaf and shove them contemplatively into your mouth. This seems to break the spell of the crowd. They start to murmur.
"Murderer!" you hear one of them stammer.
The bread is not very good. It tastes like they left an ingredient out of it. You don't feel like finishing it. You rip another big hunk off of it and offer it to the store security guard.