That ruthless bastard, he got me! All that’s left is to take what’s coming to me, tough it out like a man. I lay down, side by side with the others, all dressed in Mayflower Pilgrim outfits, and all ready for our beating. The Spaniard and his two guards stand above us, ready to punish. He is wearing a pin-stripe suit, pointy shoes, and a Salvadore Dali moustache. He comes to the first pilgrim, winds up, and kicks him right across the face, sending his teeth and fake hairpiece flying through the air. Soon, it will be my turn.
     He kicks the next man in line, knocking his head clear off his shoulders, neat as a fiery axe. And now- my turn. His smile does not comfort me, elevated so many feet above my doomed face. He seems to wind up extra far for my kick, which will surely be my end. He gets a running start, lefts his leg, and… tap. A mere putt to the chin, gentle as a summer breeze. He looks down at me and smiles again- this time I join in the smiling, happy for my face to be intact. He’s on our side! All I have to do is lay here, play dead possum, and wait for the signal. The alarm! The revolution!
 
 

THE END