Before he faced the firing squad he dipped his finger in his mouth, between the gums and the lip. Drew out a long line of tobacco stained spit. He drew something on the wall. What’s that? My name. Last requests? I want fresh breast milk and a bullet proof vest. They can be obtained, but they’ll be aiming for the head anyway. Yeah? Yeah. Fuck the vest, I want a steak, medium rare with horseradish. Can do. And he was executed while the sun bled out in the background.