Fellow had a habit of speaking his mind, which is exactly why three police officers were rearranging his face for him. Quite a bit of blood flowed from his mouth and above his eye. For a moment he thought he might die, that this might be the end of him. But then he realised no one ever dies from a beating: they just give up.
These beating felt almost practiced now, the punches felt strained, and the kicks felt fake (as if the cops didn’t care about the show anymore than they cared about their next doughnut). If these punks didn’t even care why should he. So he stifled a yawn and shut the hell up so he could at least enjoy the night air.