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.
White
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.
*firing shots*
Black
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
