The blade was inserted with such precision that even its victim had to know he was not being killed by some roughneck thug. This killer was an artist. If the last of his life’s juices weren’t spurting on the pavement the victim would have been better able to appreciate the training it took to develop the skill to take the life of an animal as large as himself with so little effort, so little violence, so little noise. The only sound he heard was the crack of his skull hitting the cement.
Words & Music by Mike Power 