The Execution

The execution The basement, where cars are parked in neat little boxes in a row, is cold and creepy. It looks like a place where the fascists can execute dissenters those who go on about liberty for the masses. There are bloodstains on the wall and cars are silent witnesses to the massacre. From the roof of the garage, blood drips of the tortured on the first floor. A black and white western on another wall drown the screams of those who finally realize there is no escape. I sit in my car; it is ten years old and is not forgotten in this horrid time. I sleep a little. Wake up, start, the vehicle and take it out for a spin.