Beating Some More

There was no doubt about it, the horse was truly dead, yet men with wads of dough stood near the creature's shrunken head. One could not really tell about the means, there were some sticks, a hammer, even two but what unfolded was a curious mix of betting papers and the need to still subdue. They beat the carcass mildly decomposed until the feeling had embraced them all, and when the cruel winter came and took one of the Percherons they did not blink. Perhaps it is the nature of humanity to press the flesh of beauty into rotten stench of death.