I was intoxicated so things came in slow motion, finding the specks of blood which became a trail all took a moment to settle. Ron and I quickened our pace around the building anxious to what we would find. My eyes followed the trail leading to a most graphic image still burnt into memory. One man was holding his head up while another punched or kicked the man. Each hit echoing through bone, a snap a crack. He was not fighting back but they still beat him. Finally they got tired of holding his head up and dropped his body to sidewalk. At this point the bloodied up rag doll managed to curl up to fetal position. Although shielding his face couldn't stop the force of constant a hail of stomps and brutal kicks to his gut. It must have been one distinct hit that broke him; a kick to back of his head jolted him around the body went limp. The cigarette slipped from my lips, unnoticed. I patted Ron's shoulder, he turned, I motioned to head back to the club. We turned without saying a word and walked slowly back to the club. After all what could we do?