I sort through the trunk of my car for a few minutes before entering. It's important to get the right mask. Be the right person. So to speak.
Wolf? Not today.
Through the door, the muted sound of Russian chatter sounds like the TV turned right down, and I expect to hear studio laughter or applause. Nothing, though. I do hear a dog...
Collie? No, don't think so.
I should really start bringing a pipe, I think to myself, or a bat. Could buy a gun? I discard the idea. No sense cashing out for a piece when I can find ten or twenty in any one of these places.
Pig? Maybe.
Enough deliberating. I grab the Rooster – Richard, I call him. It helps to put a name to them, I'm not sure why. I can never really tell if it's an identity I'm slipping into or a friend I happen to be wearing. I can never really tell much, actually. I hardly feel like I'm here at all.
I wait for the approaching footsteps and kick the door in when they draw close. The wood meets skin, muscle, bone. 480 Points! There's a crack and a slam as the guy hits the wall, and I scoop up whatever he was holding as I charge past. Two guys headed my way – one with a handgun– so I duck into an adjoining room and pray there are no guns inside. Lucky me. Just one guy, whose head I break open with what turns out to be a golf club. 400 Points! No time to deliberate, though, cause the other two are on their way through. I hurl the club when I see the first glimpse of a white suit, and 300 Points! he goes down. I swing a right hook at the next guy, who 600 Points! collapses. I grab the club, put my foot on his chest, take a swing. 1000 Points! The other guy's up already, only winded by the throw, so I put my whole body into turning, swinging, hitting. 600 Points! I can't avoid seeing the dent the club leaves in his skull, and I know I'll be seeing it later, when I close my eyes. Or when I sleep.
But it's just like the army. Just like Hawaii. It doesn't matter. They don't matter.
That's the spirit.
There's still the rest of the floor to clear, and I hear a dog snarl as it smells blood. I cock the club over my shoulder and tense up, locking my knees in a power stance. A Doberman. They're always fucking Dobermans. But I've forgotten something.
I turn around. The guy by the door is stood, quaking, and I remember I'm holding his weapon – his only weapon. He looks at me with absolute terror in his eyes, and I think for a se-
Kill him.
He's unarmed, defenseless. Can I even do this? Ca-
Kill him.
Richard, I don't want to, I don-
Kill him. You must kill him.
I'm hesitating. He can see it. He'll make a move any second.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
I kill him.
480 Points!
His blood sprays my face like warm, thick water from a wave crashing on rocks. I hear it hit the walls, hear the life leave his body in a cut-off burst of terrified Russian.
Feel nothing.
I feel nothing.
I put the dog down when it comes and it 600 Points! practically bounces when it hits the floor. How many more mafia guys down here? Not many, I imagine; it seemed quiet from the outside, only a couple of floors and not big ones at that. Hurrying down the hall, the smell of weed hits me like a truck. So that's what they've got going on here. I duck into a room, lay out the occupants with an effortless swing. 480 Points! 900 Points! They didn't even stand up. The air in here is smoky, and it fucking stinks. I feel like I'm getting stoned just stood in this tiny, dark room, so I duck out and slam the door closed. A sentry at the end of the hall thinks he sees me, but he doesn't – I'm already back round the corner. Might need that gun from before. I prise it from a bloodied, tattooed hand, try not to notice the presence of a wedding ring on the third finger. This gun is foreign to me, but I don't need to be an expert with it right now. I just need to aim, squeeze, compensate for recoil. And I do.
300 Points!
The sentry's emptied head pings off the wall and he collapses forwards, his hand squeezing the Uzi and provoking a burst of bullets to embed themselves in the wallpaper. I hear clattering, a smash, a few sets of footsteps headed quickly this way. I throw the gun aside and grab the club, which by now has bent a little out of shape. But it should do for these. The footsteps get closer and closer, shoe soles skidding and clapping on the tiles, and then they're on me. The first swing gets one 480 Points! and he's soon followed by two more who go down 600 Points! 1000 Points! just as easily. They fall flat on the ground and slide through their own blood, leaving gruesome trails out from the corner.
GO!
I slump down for a breath. I didn't realise how much I was panting
GO!
but I am, a lot. I can taste blood, and I wonder whether it's just over-exertion
GO!
or someone's actual blood that's found a way onto my tongue. I lift the mask a
GO!
little, spit on the floor. Thick. Red. Disgusting. I pull the mask down tighter, stand
GO!
up, look for something to replace my battered golf club. A splintered baseball bat?
GO!
For fuck's sake Richard, I'm fucking GOING! The bat will do. I head for the stairs.