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21 On the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of John Lennon’s Murder On a step behind the Holiday Inn, Two Russians roamed up, bummed a cigarette, While a third snuck up, struck me from behind. I sprawled to asphalt.Then the boot came in. I swung through the red, but it’s a good bet I didn’t land one.The blackout was kind. I woke knotted in blood-ruined sheets, startled: Smashed, stamped, and splintered to a numbed dazzle, I spat black wads into the fuzzy sink. One look in the mirror, my brain curdled. I propped in the shower stall. Steam sizzled. My hair loosened a sick swirl of sour pink. They made off, grinning, with all I had: two Dollars, five cigarettes, and my Zippo. ...

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