The Rampage

When I went down, I felt the chair's back break on the left side. I slipped my hand free in the darkness as the poor bastard walked toward me. He reached down to haul me up, and when his hand touched my shoulder, I whipped my hand up hard to his face, my thumb digging in his eye. I jerked him down to my level and held him there screaming. I smashed nose with a headbutt, and kept it up; my forehead slamming again and again into his face until it looked like a kiddie room full of bad colors and broken things. Dumas was cocky. He'd only left one gaurd, the other presumably off to help Ole' Blindy who I had bit the face of.

I rose from the floor and smashed the chair on the **** ninny. I rubbed my wrists and slicked back my hair. My breath was a hot furnace burning in my chest. I heeled Dumas' Turkish cigarette until it died under my twisting, crushing, weight. I liked that alot. The goon was carrying a .25, a pansy's gun in my book but better than nothing. I staggered to the door and kicked it open. I had been in a shed of some kind down the hill from the house, as now looked out at a white-faced punk perfectly framed against a howling tree line. The ginger turned toward me with a wide mouth. He raised his gat and I plugged him four times in the face. I grabbed at his Luger before he even hit the ground.

I was off and charging across the lawn through the mad, moaning wind when I saw the next one. Another thug slid out the bushes and got low, raising his gun and firing into the darkness. I heard the bullets whip passed me. I didn't hesitate. My hand was steady. I dove and fired, spewing **** into his guts and onto the limestone wall behind him.

When I rose I was nearly at the steps leading up to the house. A loud peel of thunder hailed my arrival and finally, it started to rain. The .25 was spent. I stuck it in my pocket anyway. I took the stairs two at a time and saw the door opening. The greaseball who opened it never saw it coming. I hit him so goddamned hard he squealed, tackling him to the ground with my shoulder destroying his ribs. I slammed my elbow into his face twice before he stopped oinking. He had .32 automatic which I releaved him of. I rose up and looked around. I was at the ground floor of the Tanner's. I figured that much. The huge window looked out over the illuminated pool. I paused, letting my pounding heart slow down. I had the Luger in my right hand, the .32 in my left. I toed open the greaser's jacket and didn't see a bigger rod. They'd have to do.

I heard the front door open and tumbled sideways as a goon walked in. He didn't see me. I played it real quiet. The toughy sauntered into the kitchen and made for the liquor cabinet. I let him get mix up a Singapore before I rushed him from behind. He turned and ate a mouthful of elbow. He was clawing for a gun when I pulled his head down and smashed his teeth with a knee and then a right hook. He crashed to the ground gurgling. I bared my teeth and slammed another hook into his temple from above, and he stopped moving. I thumbed open his jacket and saw another .32. Pansies. I rose up from his **** body with the spare ammo.

I walked as **** walks; fearless, determined, and hungry. I kicked open the kitchen door and made my way to the back. The servant's quarters were off the left, the wine cellar to the right. I paused, and thought.