Muggers haven’t got a Prayer

Everything was happening so fast I didn’t even have time to contemplate. He was floored, a stream of blood gushing out of his mouth forming a pool on the ground below his chin. He spread his legs and winced in pain, speaking a language I’m yet to understand; this language you speak when your tongue is glued on the floors of your mouth and you still feel sign language isn’t enough to reveal the depth of pain that your entire system is drowning in. His eyes were a lifeless terror-stricken orbs foraging through the crowd for any person with even a vestige of humanity left in him to give a helping hand. The hysteria hadn’t calmed when they brought the last of weapon to end it all; a boulder whose full weight got four men clench their teeth and crash! He was gone…drugged by greed and ill-will. Wails, sirens, laughter and tears make a weird cocktail for those highly susceptible to melancholy. I sigh. Blow his brains, blow his brains. Muggers haven’t got a prayer!

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