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»so,« sighed leon trotsky, »this is the end, is it, Raoul?« His coffee was bitter, but he enjoyed it-- this was the blood and sweat of mexican workers that was drinking, as he was fond of reminding himself. »Ah well. Must get this over with, else that young man won't have any material for his play.«
the silver-tipped bludgeon rose above his head, gleaming in the morning light. Odd, thought trotsky with grim irony, this beautiful image seemed that it had its place with the hammer and sickle of his homeland... doubtless many would soon be assured of its place there.
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