"Peasants," he thought, and stuck his pitchfork into a square of hay.
"What do they know about building a good, angry mob?"
He hoisted the bale onto a workbench and began teasing handfuls of straw out, putting them in neat piles.
He came from a family of mob organizers and leaders. Three generations of good, strong men who knew how to lead a group of frothing townsfolk up mountain passes, across fields and to the front gates of witches, evil doctors and foreign-born ne'r do-wells.
The secret to a good mob was in staying organized. Make sure everybody's got something to wield. Distribute just enough liquor to induce fury, but not so much that they don't keep focus. And bring a Bible.
He twisted the hay around some branches his son had collected down by the river that morning. He dipped the tips in kerosene. Then he stood and shook his head for a moment.
"Mobs today," he thought. Then, one by one, he lit the torches.
Peasants.