"And bear with patience what they utter, and part from them with a fair leave-taking."


Blood from Ahmed's knife-wound drips on several steps aloft, its russet clots a grisly token of the carnage yet in store for him whose body is transported from the stairwell, through the hallway, to the threshold of room six-O-seven—wherein wrath on hold awaits... unleashed at Willie, unexpectedly, who presents himself, triumphant, having captured single-handedly, he implies, the wanted man, dumped in a heap at the feet of Squatman—apoplectic in his rage, until assured the 'punctured A-rab' is alive (if scarcely breathing) therefore conscious and susceptible to an overdo comeuppance, which commences with his ruthless hoist from the floor to a straight-backed chair where he is bound with strips of bedding, doused with beer to heighten sentience, one eye fixed in a bleary squint, the other eye blinded by repulsive gore, as Squatman, looming, loads a bullet (one) in the chamber of a snub-nosed pistol—spun  and snapped shut—pokes its muzzle well into Ahmed's snarly smirk—saliva drooling, chipped teeth biting (as if chomping at the bit), his focus locked onto Squatman's face with the fury of a cobra, unconcerned about the odds of persevering (for an interval) or expiring once the trigger (being pulled this instant) fires or not, serene, the Smile of Joy—Bassamat al-farah—on Ahmed's upturned face.