“How do ya like that, huh?”
He didn’t look so smart sprawled like a crushed ant on the floor like that. I could almost imagine the foot prints pressed into his face, like a violent memories tattoo. I see him wriggle out of his sub-conscious. I kick him onto his back to be illuminated by the horrors he forgot in his blackened state.
He sort of splutters out, in a replacement of a scream for help. It’s funny how even the most atheist of people call out to something that’s not there. A desperate little mutter between coughs of blood, they want so much to be out, but lets be honest, that stuffs all about desperation.
I smile inside at this sorrowful sight but to remain mean I hold a solid lipped face. My Dad taught me that one.
I like it when little beads of spit shoot out when I shout. For a moment those spheres of surface tension catch the suns needy glow and float through an unimaginable universe. A miracle even God couldn’t have predicted.
I pounded at his face like drum skins. My instrument of choice holds the audience in a trance like state, Mozart has nothing on this.
What’s he gonna do next? The audience holds its breath.
I hop on the spot shaking my hands loose and to get my shoulders working. My own little interval, a chance to unwind for the next performance.
Not to get carried away as the boss reminds to a point of nagging. I spit in the victims woeful pointless expression.
“Money makes the world go round” I sing, “Talking of ****in’ money where the **** is that ****in’ money?” I stop with deliberate furrows and that geezer-gone-mad expression I pull off so beautifully.
Christ I feel like a God.
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