PM1303152
The cops had caught him fair and square
but he couldn't bear to be arrested,
he had shot his mouth off too many times
down on the beach,
accepting a few free Maccabees he had
spilled the beans, where he had done it,
who he had done it to, and how he had
got away with it. Luck was on his side as
someone heard him, and turned him in,
instead of leaving it to vagrant justice.
They would have beaten him to death,
I know, I saw it happen a number of
times and became sickened to my surprise.
Blood flows so crimson and wide, staining
pavement for yards around the victim.
First the cops surrounded him,
there were five of them against one,
nobody would come to his aid after what
they heard, as if fearing injury they all
pulled out their batons,
five batons, one head.
He screamed in pain as the first two hit
his skull, but fell silent as he fell down,
they continued to pummel his lifeless body,
as it lay on the dirt floor.
They stopped as the bleeding became heavy
and worry overcame them as they feared
they might have hit him one too many times,
one felt for a pulse and upon realizing
there still was a faint one they grabbed
him by the hands and feet and began
pulling him out of the bar. He left a
trail of blood in the dirt as they dragged him
out, through the window I watched as they
threw him into the back of a van. They
could have done that to anyone, I thought,
they didn't even question him. I had half
a pint left but I couldn't finish it, it had
gone sour and the smell of blood was
making me ill. One of the women from
behind the bar began sweeping up the clots
of blood lodged in the dirt, cursing all of
us as though we were all animals and
we all deserved to be dragged out of there
unconscious, hardly a good way to make any
tips but her hatred ran deep. I left my beer
on the counter and walked out into the hot desert
afternoon sunshine and tried to draw some life
from the awesome heat. Nothing doing, my blood
had run cold and it would take more than forty
degrees to warm it back up.
MCC
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