There’s a nick in his rage-shaved head, the absence of his beautiful curls is bleeding.
The angry heart in his torso could bounce a cicada off his chest and that heart is pumping the blood that leaks from the nick in his head.
It’s nothing, really, but in the quick flash of the streetlight it looks like his head is gashed.
It’s just blood, more temper sweat than even blood, but for that second it’s a natural kingdom defense.
From the edge of the single story roof in that stripe of quick step streetlight the man looks demented and fearless.
On the roof Gary Marchak looks down at his gun.
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