Touch of Evil
In his rumpled cigar chomped suit, Orson stares down at his prey's brown eyes.
Black or White ? he rasped in his gravel voice.
As he waits, his hand caresses the gun like a lit dynamite.
The victim's badge is torn, shoes worn down from many fistfights,
a weary gladiator in the midst of the malaria-infested city.
Sneering like a crowned vulture king, Orson cocks his gun in slow motion. Plump
fingers prime for the shot at the head. His justice, his rules.
When we play God, we also dance with the Devil.
Posted for : The Mag : I read and watched for a bit Touch of Evil by Orson Welles