Sûrah LXXV
THE RISING OF THE DEAD
"When will be this Day of Resurrection?"

75
DEATH WARMED OVER

A bullet fired at point-blank range, upon entry, makes a tidy little hole. Upon exit, that same bullet makes a grossly gruesome mess, especially when encountering bone / brain / bone on its passage through, ejecting shattered skull and medulla oblongata—as is  the case when Squatman puts an end to Ahmed, tersely; dead; no resurrection for a corpse, bound to a chair that scuttles backward, totters, topples, elevates knees, concusses head—'half' head—its face intact like a mask affixed to a blob of  jelly, its smile become a fossil of dementia that incriminates those who panic hearing "OPEN UP; POLICE!" from the hotel's raided hall—lawyers, judges, juries, and years of prison fueling fears of each, compelling one to frisk the newly lifeless for his inconsistent gun, to seize it, brandish it, determine to employ it in defense of his long-time chum, to lunge, to seize the doorknob, fling the threshold open as he squeezes off a round; only to recoil from the bang-bang backlash, reel into the room, an instant corpse himself, Willie having finally done his duty, conscience cleared, to rest in...

POLICEMAN

FREEZE!

Everybody freezes.

POLICEMAN

HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!

Arms extend; hearts pound.

Arresting officers swarm and take the suspects into custody.