Peas in a pod

8.  Getting through  ….

Slow systematic beating-up.  That brawn-head was into that.  In-between each ton-of-bricks smacked at Kwesi’s chest, the ugly muscle-head stood back and waited.  Arms folded across that bull-torso.  Looking.  No sign of looking for confirmation that his hurt was getting through.  Just looking.

Each time Kwesi fought to get his will back together.  Willed himself to take another pair of eye-poppers.  Each time he gritted his teeth, gritted his will, gritted his determination  ..  to let a truck-load of concrete up-end itself onto his chest.

Each time he did it.  Pulled himself together.  Pulled himself up.  Willed himself up.
Each time it took longer  ……


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in praise of men we’d like to be





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