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me go but don't you talk to me like this anymore or. or."
    "Or? Or?" Roscoe said, his hairless brows throbbing as he touched the small man on the chest with the tip of his stick. "You Mexicans're all alike. Think you're tough, huh? Bantamweight champ a this garbage dump, huh? I oughtta tear that oily mustache off your face."
    Then the flickering eyelid was still and the eyes glazed over. "Go ahead," the Mexican barely whispered.
    And Roscoe Rules did. A second later the Mexican was standing there with a one inch piece of his right mustache and the skin surrounding it in Roscoe Rules' left hand. The raw flesh began to spot at once with pinpoints of blood.
    Then the Mexican screamed and kicked Roscoe Rules in the balls.
    Suddenly Whaddayamean Dean found himself trying to get the Mexican's neck in the crook of his arm, to squeeze off the oxygen to the brain, which would make him lose consciousness and flop convulsively on the ground, thus "doing the chicken."
    The Mexican's erstwhile black enemy was experiencing a deep sense of guilt and outrage at the Mexican's plight.
    "You honky motherfucker!" the black hod carrier yelled when he finally exploded. He tossed a straight right at Whaddayamean Dean which caught him on the left temple and knocked him free of the Mexican and over the kneeling body of Roscoe Rules who was hoping desperately he wouldn't puke from the kick in the balls.
    Roscoe aimed a spunky blow at the black hod carrier's leg with his unauthorized, thirty-four ounce sap which pulled his pants down when he wasn't careful to keep his Sam Browne buckled tightly.
    Hit em in the shins. They can't take that, thought Roscoe, swinging the sap weakly, relying on folklore to save him now that he could not stand up.
    But the hod carrier did not seem to feel the sap bouncing off his legs as he and the Mexican took turns punching Whaddayamean Dean silly.
    The redhead had lost his baton and gun and was bouncing back and forth between the two men. "Partner! Partnerrrr!" Whaddayamean Dean yelled, but Roscoe Rules could only kneel there, look up in hatred and wish he could shoot the nigger, the spick and his puny partner.
    Then Roscoe fell over on his back, nursing his rapidly swelling testicles, spitting foam like a mad dog.
    It ended abruptly. There had been men, women and children screaming, encouraging, cursing gleefully. There had been bodies thudding off the walls, doors slamming. Then silence.
    Roscoe Rules and Whaddayamean Dean Pratt were alone in the hallway. Both on the floor, uniforms half torn off, batons, hats, flashlights, guns and notebooks scattered. Whaddayamean Dean lay moaning, draped across an overturned trash can. Roscoe Rules felt his strength returning as he struggled to his feet, keeping his balls in both hands for fear if he dropped them they'd burst like ripe tomatoes.
    Roscoe was finished for the evening. He was content to limp down the stairs to sit in the radio car and wait for the arrival of other units after his partner staggered to the car and put out the "officers need help" call. Roscoe could not return with Whaddayamean Dean when he went back into the building with some sixteen policemen and began breaking down doors in a vain search for the two hod carriers who had escaped and were not arrested for two weeks.
    "Give em a few licks for me, partner," Roscoe had whispered to his partner as he shuffled slowly to the ambulance, walking bowlegged, holding the enflamed swollen testicles in both hands as though he had a double handful of heavy bullion or precious gems. Which indeed he did as far as he was concerned. He thought at that moment that he might lose them forever and nothing ever seemed as precious. He refused to release the handful of damaged flesh even to step up into the ambulance, and just stood there, bowlegged, holding himself while two ambulance attendants lifted him up in a seated carry.
    Before they closed the ambulance door, he called weakly to his battered partner, "Give em one for me,