Friday, October 06, 2006
**NOTE: There is some swearing. You've been warned!**
There really an art to it.
One there, two over there, and three more coming in.
An artist uses a paintbrush to draw on his canvas. But he plans it out first.
A lot of my job is planning.
Another bang. This table isn't gonna last.
Shit. Time for moving.
I rolled and aimed again, taking down the two next to the washing machine. The other was blasting randomly, but he was just trying to add to the chaos. He was behind a sofa, and was too cowardly to actually look out to fire.
I dived behind the dining room table in time to hear the thumps from the three others upstairs. I pulled out one of my homemade grenades and tossed it behind the couch. The guy squealed.
For like two seconds.
The three others tumbled down the stairs and I got two of them before the third dived behind the sofa.
What is it with these people and their fucking sofa?
I didn't want to waste another grenade, so I just sprinted past the sofa and blew him to pieces from behind the coffee table.
I put a new clip in my glock and then stuck it in the holster. I took out the 12 guage. This next room was going to be messy.
Sometimes I liked to give advice to the people I was killing.
Run, you idiot!
No, not over there! I can kill you over th-
See? Now you're dead. Nice going.
How 'bout you? Are you any better. Ooh, a molotov cocktail. That's creative. Only it slipped out of your hand. And hit the ceiling. And you killed yourself. Pity.
I stepped out from the doorway and took down a couple of ill-equipped stragglers. One tried to throw a knife and the other actually tried to tackle me. What is this, a football game? Moron.
I finally found the briefcase behind the refridgerator. I also helped myself to a jar of pickles.
I slipped out the window and crawled down the fire-escape, sliding down the ladder and into the alleyway.
There were two men there, looking at my bloody trench-coat.
I thought "what are you looking at?" might be a little too obvious, but it did the trick. They went back to their cigarettes.
I caught the bus back to my apartment and opened the case.
Everything was in there.
I changed the combination on the case and went to put it behind my bed.
I went out, and crossed the street to the smoky bar I so often found my refuge at, pushing through the grimy door and greeting the bartender.
"And how was your evenin', Mr. Georges?"
"Fine, thank you."
I made these: