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Suppose you've a right to a firing squad
of your peers. Walk out into the harsh sunlight, a glint bright as lamp
glare off a sheet of rag bond. Step forth with the defiant gait of an
unrepentant P-O-W. No bars hold you, no cage contains your savage
imagination now.
Stride towards the ink-stained wall, white washed clay,
same as the others in the courtyard of this villa, a once-proud
hacienda, before the revolution. You almost gasp "strike up the
mariachi band." Yet mirth escapes you.
The span is pocked by former reputations on the rise,
ravaged, met by a brutal demise. Already you hear weapons drawn, the
ballpoint click, hum of word processor, dry scrape of the truly
portentous; fountain pen nib against page.
No Zorro swoops down from tiled rooftops to swing you into
the saddle of a high rearing black stallion before he whirls and swishes
a swordpoint Z across Sgt. Garcia's abundant backside.
Brace yourself for what's next, the shouted commands:
ready, aim, critique. Say you won't take it lying down. But when it
comes, the first volley, the steady onslaught, a drizzle that pierces
you everywhere you live, a portion inside crumples to the hard soil,
withers and blows away, a tumbleweed, a defeated soul compelled towards
the light.
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