Used to have Firing Squad role-plays with a few U. S. M. C. Buddies of mine back in my Military Days. Shirtless, in cami-britches and jungle-boots. We'd place a hand on the others muscled chests, be the last man to feel the other guys strong and sturdy heartbeat. Then, we'd stand side by side, tight bellies held in, chest out, dog-tags plastered against our chests by sweat. In front of each of us are three enemy soldiers, two one one knee, one stands between them, all three with rifles aimed squarely at our chests. I'd imagine the soldiers about to shoot me are training the cross-hairs of their weapons at the visible pumping at my lower left pec - my rapid, forceful heart showing them the most lethal site to shoot me. I'd look down at my lean, young body, light growth of reddish-brown hair over my sternum, around my lower pec's and down to my belly-button. The dog-tags at my chest moving in sync with my visible heart beat. I am standing tall and proud, but my chest heaves with each breath abs trembling as I await my death. Then, we hear the sound of nine rifles firing and I feel three strings of fire tear through my chest, breaking my ribs and sternum, and ripping my heart to shreds. I grab my chest and go down to my knees. I feel my heart thumping, my chest struggling. I go down on my back, my hands come off my chest just as my squad mate falls onto my dying body, his ear to my chest, listening to my erratic heartbeat, my hand finds his chest, feeling his heart sputter and stop.