He's down. Looks pretty bad. You can walk away now, you've had your fun.
But wait... He's shifting, his every movement telegraphed to your senses, accompanied by the delicate crunching of the broken glass he's lying in. A hand with torn skin, bloody crescents under the fingernails, slides across concrete into the pocket of his grimy trench coat. What has he got in his pockets? You smile. Whatever it is, it's not going to help him. You heft your bat and start walking back. The arm stiffens, a shudder passes through his frame. He relaxes, withdrawing the arm from the coat, lying inert and lifeless.
You walk over to where he lies, curious. What was so important? His fingers are tightly balled, a fist, at odds with the relaxation you've beaten into every other muscle. His breathing is growing audible now. Ragged, laboured, flecks of blood dotting the concrete in front of his mouth. He coughs when you step on his wrist, a wet unpleasant exhalation. You force his fingers open to reveal...
Cotter pulled back from the corpse. Fucking brat. He couldn't distinguish his mashed hand from the mashed face he's been pummelling. When he withdrew his arm loose strips of flesh and bone came with it, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, right? His vision is blurred, one of his eyes has swelled shut. Prising his ruined hand open he reveals a Boopa syringe, empty.He sits down heavily next to the corpse and starts to laugh. Then he coughs.