Bust out of the bank, a sardonic grin on your face, sort of embarrassed at your grandstanding antics, but fuck it you've come this far so might as well shout "Attica! Attica!" because there isn't a whole lot else goin' on near or around you. There ain't much of a crowd, 'cause you ain't much of a robber, but you're motherfuckin' Robin Hood, so don't worry about it. The man on the roof worries about it, worries that you will actually follow through and kill the hostage, so he finishes you first. It happens fast, and so you don't even notice. God damn boy. A man should hear the bullet that ends him.
He goes in for the punch, and you hardly feel it connecting into your teeth except as this pulling sensation, and he winds up and smashes you again and you stumble backwards, fall, and realize you have a mouth full of bloody, dislodged teeth. You stand up, shakey, not hurting but not happy, and you call him a bitch. He laughs and pulls out a blade. You're scared at the end, I guess, but you're more just angry that this fag got to finish you off. God damn. Color is all it is in the end, really. Color is all it is. There's a lot of red here.
The earth is red and the stone is red and the sky is black, black. The canyon of Nis is not empty, but where it was once full now it is in a half-way point, mostly empty, with these little specks of habitation and intellect and then these vast, empty cities full of sick people, twisted beyond repair, crawling over each other, screaming, screaming, fucking and twisting and suffocating and dying in this great city on the shores of the river of blood as their veiny pale bodies interweave and intermesh and It takes hold and It slowly rots us and It slowly wins because it doesn't care for us. And we die.
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