Field of blood streams.
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by Mission Resistors It didn't occur to me that the young, black, self-proclaimed thug whose girlfriend I owe three dollars was about to cowardly strike me from behind with a wooden baseball bat. The back of my head and throughout my body was almost without life. Over three dollars. I lay there, trying to protect my face. The Barry Bonds of Mission St. continued to reach the all-time record. As the blood and beating continued, the fans accumulated and just stood in awe. That's all they did. He finally walked off with a silent standing ovation. He had the nerve to return moments later to say I was making the block hot. I couldn't move. Warm blood poured over the back of my head, neck, back. I thought my arms and legs were broken. A prostitute helped by putting pressure on my wounds to stop the bleeding from my head. Paramedics soon arrived and asked me to get up on the gurney. They spoke to each other as if around an office cooler. They released me that night. I returned and gingerly, but purposely, walked the same block where the incident occurred. As the fans accumulated, I signed no autographs except for one, the prostitute who possibly saved my life. |