Samson looks faintly pathetic now, growling in his cage. He used to be a mountain, a God, full of fine words, fine wine, rhythms and rhymes that made my heart feel fine.
I hold his chin in my hands, as he growls. I sob a little as I feel how thin his jaws have become, those jaws that used to bite, callous, through metal and bone.
Samson asks me if I think we’ll get out of this one. I lie to him and tell him that everything is going to be kosher. No fucking fear, mate.
I spit on the floor and more blood comes out. I’m leaking death. It’s funny, because somehow I am still strong. And Samson, to all intents and purposes whole, albeit blemished, is shattered.
Samson mumbles about Goths and Vandals, about religious art. Sometimes he curses in German, and cries a little. Sometimes he whimpers and at those moments, when he sounds like a frightened dog, I hate him a little.
We’re all up, now, boyo. They’re on their way in and we won’t see another dawn.
Samson is staring at me. He mutters ‘Fucking finally’ and slumps into a pile of meat and shit in his cage. Me? I barely move my eyes as the door opens. I know what’s coming.