Mark awoke with a ringing in his ears and a searing pain in his head. Adding to that, serrated teeth of the red and black power connectors were still present as it had been throughout most of the interrogation. Mark would have found the pain and stress of this situation overwhelming, but it wasnt Mark that had regained consciousness. The beast inside had risen from its slumber, and it was very angry.
Mark opened his eyes slowly, waiting until the blurred images in front of him came into focus. The spiky haired playboy looking mobster was inside the room with him, talking frantically with the muscular mobster in the tank top. The spiky haired mobster was yelling about reinforcements coming soon, and gesturing with the Mossberg tactical in his arms, while his burly comrade kept pointing towards the door to the hallway.
Mark kept his eyes low, and did his best to keep his teeth from clacking together with rage. In his position, tied to a wooden chair, with two armed guards in front of him… attack was not an option. So he waited, like a coiled spring, waiting for the first moment of weakness from his captors.
He ground his teeth in frustration, as he tested the binds behind his back. The seat and back of the chair were wood, but the base and legs were constructed out of metal. He snarled his lips as his eyes glared behind his wavy, damp locks of brown hair, like a predator lurking in the brush. They couldnt keep him bound forever.
A knock on the door caused the two Russian's to jerk in fear, before turning towards the door cautiously. "Dimitri! Open the door, quick!" A voice in perfect English said from behind the door. Dimitri kept his shotgun at the read as he cautiously opened the door. "Fuck, its me!" The mobster said, pushing the barrel of the shotgun away from his body. Dimitri threw a hand up in exasperation. "Sorry! All the explosions and screams got me fucking jumpy!" Dimitri snapped. The sound of the revving engine, and horrid screaming resonated from the back rooms of the club. "Yea… and whatever the fucks making those noises…" Dimitri mumbled fearfully.
The mobster in the doorway winced, before turning back around towards the large object on the ground, something he and another mobster had been carrying. Dimitri held open the door for them, as they hoisted up a long wooden crate and brought it through the doorway.
Dimitri glanced around nervously, before ducking back into the interrogation room. Mark kept his head down, as he watched the mobster's open the crate to reveal five AK-47 rifles. The two mobster's who had carried the crate quickly armed themselves, becoming visibly more confident with Soviet steel in their hands. The broad shouldered mobster quickly made his way towards the crate to pull a rifle out for himself, just as Dimitri walked over and poked around inside the container. "Wait, where's the extra clips?" Dimitri asked frantically searching the crate futilely.
The mobster with the surprisingly perfect English accent simply shrugged. "We left them in the van." He said. Dimitri slapped his forehead in exasperation. "What are we going to do if we run out of ammo? Wave our dicks at them? Go get the ammo, hurry! Their going to run out of victims soon and we're next!" Dimitri yelled, somehow managing to sound more frustrated then terrified. His words were highlighted by more of the demonic revving, accompanied the sounds of tortured screams. The mobsters didnt need to be asked twice.
Dimitri cautiously followed the two mobster's as they made their way out of the doorway. The spiky haired mobster let the door swing shut behind him as he went back to covering the hallway, ready to shoot anything that came from the main room. The last remaining mobster in the room stood a few feet in front of the doorway, holding his AK-47 up against his shoulder. His face was tense, his eyes half blinked in nervous ticks, as the rifle in his hands trembled ever so slightly.
Mark slowly lifted his head. The silent rage had grown impatient and was beginning to overtake him. He felt a cool, dark blot begin to spread within his chest, enveloping his heart as he embraced the waves of negative emotions beating from his chest. Soon the darkness began to fill him, until his entire body was possessed by it's unnerving presence.
Mark looked up at the bear mask staring back at him from its perch where Roman had left it, hanging on the door coat hanger, staring down at him with cold dark eyes. He felt a short shiver run down his body. The mask was calling to him. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath and let it out, letting go of all the fear and reservations that had held him in bondage all this time. It was time for Mark the human, to stop thinking, and for Mark the bear, to start killing.
Mark exploded to his feet, taking the chair with him. He could only make tiny, awkward steps, but those tiny steps were driven by pent up rage. He screamed through grit teeth as the serrated clamps ripped free of his nipples, taking much of the sensitive pink flesh with it. His scream was not one of agony. Pain only further fueled the deep seated anger driving his actions.
His cry was loud and terrifying, as he charged the mobster, barreling towards him with clumsy, belligerent fury. The mobster had enough time to turn around, before Mark's broad shoulder slammed into his chest and carried him back against the wall behind him. Mark felt the impact of his body weight slamming into the mobster chest, emptying the man's lungs with a violent crash.
Mark staggered backwards before hurling his body through the air at the stunned mobster. He twisted his body as his feet left the ground, swinging the chair tied to his back towards the man. Mark and the chair swung through the air before crashing against the burly man's chest and stomach, driving all of Mark's considerable weight through the mobster's body. The mobster sank to the ground onto his back, managing to remain conscious, if just barely.
Mark lifted himself up, and leaned his body foreword, raising the feet of the chair as high up into the air as he could, before jumping straight backwards, bringing the thin feet down against the fallen mobster's stomach with devastating force. The mobster made a tortured groaning noise, as the two of the wooden chair feet crushed against his belly. Mark threw his body weight foreword, lifting the chair up off of the mobster before throwing himself back again.
Only one of the chair's feet struck the mobster, but the placement couldnt have been anymore catastrophic. The foot of the chair sank into the mobster's eye, driving it down through his skull, and sinking into the back of his head. The mobster's feet jerked up towards the air for a brief moment, before remaining very still.
Mark raised the chair again. The mobster's leg gave a short, sudden spasm as the narrow wooden foot lifted from his skull. Mark took several short steps backwards, and once again flung himself, chair first, towards the wall. The chair collapsed painfully against Mark's body, feeling as if someone had broken it over his back. The pain didnt slow Mark though, not in the state he was in now. It only made him stronger.
"Must get free!" His arms thrashed and wriggled wildly, as the chair simply fell apart around the rope. He let out a throaty bellow of wild elation as he rose from the broken remnants of the chair. "Free… to kill every single one of these cock sucking mother fuckers."
# # #
Dimitri's shotgun trembled in his hands as he stared at the door to the interrogation room. He had heard the inhuman cry from that brainwashed psycho, following a series of violent crashes, and another loud, triumphant roar. Dimitri didnt want to open the door, he really didnt. He was positive that Pavel was dead, and that… thing behind the door was waiting for him.
He hesitantly reached for the door latch, his hand trembling as if it knew better then he did, and was trying to rebel. He gripped the handle of the shotgun firmly, and forced himself to nut up. Roman was expecting him to pull the slack around here, now that Viktor was gone. Though… this was the guy who killed Viktor… and Viktor was the hardest man Dimitri had ever known. He glanced off to the side, where the rest of his "backup" had gone. "It wouldnt be cowardly to wait for them to return, right?" He let his hand lower from the door latch.
Before he could even take a step back, the door exploded foreword, swinging open with violent force. The door crashed against Dimitri's nose, flattening it back against his skull and filling his eyes with water, before his body slammed back against the wall behind him. He blinked his water filled eyes to clear his blurry vision.
Dimitri's watery eyes widened at the sight in front of him. The massive, fat man stepped from the doorway, his t shirt split open, his large bag of a belly hanging out, blood running from the wounds where the electrical connectors had been. The thing Dimitri noticed most, even more then the two AK-47's leveled at his body, gripped in the psycho's sausage like fingers, was the bear mask silently roaring down at him as the eyes behind it burned with murderous intent. Dimitri's lips quivered with fear as they whispered a single word. "Please…" Dimitri's plea fell on deaf ears.
# # #
Mark snarled as he squeezed the triggers of the assault rifles in his hands. The AK-47's violently shook and roared as they spat their salvos into the vain mobster's body, ripping through his nice blue shirt and shredding apart his fancy white jacket. It was then, as Mark's finger's white knuckled around his guns, as the bullets tore the fallen man apart in front of him, that he understood what the dark violent animal inside of him was.
The cold, overwhelmingly oppressive dark entity clawing through his chest, possessing his hands to kill… It was his pain. It was his self loathing, his anxiety, his fear, and most of all, his hatred of others for making him feel inferior to them. For as long as Mark could remember, he bottled all of these feelings away. He pushed all of the ugliness down, as far as it would go, anything to avoid facing the pain. It had done nothing but concentrate the darkness growing inside of him, compacted it, squeezing it until there was no more room to put it. The beast within, was the manifestation of his pain, and the need to vent it onto others.
With every bullet that ripped through the man slumped before him, he felt a tiny release, a small relief of the pain lifting from his body. He let the violent recoil of the rifles lift his aim, as they spat their volleys of automatic fury. The torrent of gunfire punched the spiky haired mobster's face through the back of his skull. The volleys tore through the man's head, until it was indistinguishable from the rest of his bullet ravaged body. When the magazines of his rifles were finally empty, and the smoke from his barrels subsided, he found himself a moment of clarity. "Why did I ever resist this?"
Mark threw the empty assault rifles aside, before reaching down to take the pump action Mossberg 500 from the dead mobster's hand. No sooner then he had, a hail of automatic fire ripped through the air towards him from the other side of the hallway. Mark took a step back into the interrogation room, and calmly checked the chamber of the pump action. He watched as the bullets pelted the walls and floor in front of him, as the mobster's fired wildly from the curtained hallway at the end of the hall.
Mark couldnt help but scoff at what he was seeing. The bullets were bouncing all around the hallway, a text book example of spray and pray. He had never seen such horrible trigger discipline. It was clear to Mark that these Russian thugs had no idea how to shoot.
Mark lumbered to the weapons crate as the mobster's reloaded. Last time Mark was in this state of mind, it was like a possession. The bear clawed its way out of Mark's chest and took his place, ripping apart his enemies with blood thirsty abandon. This time around, after being beaten, tortured and humiliated for hours, he eagerly embraced the bear. His mind had an uncanny amount of focus, the power and speed at which he moved and reacted was far above his regular abilities. He could now direct the bear, nudge him in the direction it would go.
Mark hoisted the last of the AK style rifles from it, tucking the stock tightly against his shoulder, wielding the shotgun in his other hand. He waited for a break in the barrage of automatic fire before leaning half of his body through the doorway. He lowered the shotgun, firing a blast of buckshot down the hall. The mobsters jumped back around the corner, one of them yelping in pain, as stray pellet from the shotgun blast bounced off of the concrete floor at his feet, and into his calf.
Mark's strides were long and fearless. He lumbered through down the hall, tossing the shotgun up into the air, catching it by the pump action, chambering another round before tossing it back into his grasp. He fired a second time, the shot tearing off parts of the wall and sending drywall fragments through the air towards the henchmen hunkering on the other side of it.
As he chambered the shotguns pump action with one hand, the mobsters took the time to dart from around the corner, hoping to catch him in between shots. Mark was prepared for this. He held the AK-47 tightly against his shoulder, already aiming where they would emerge.
Mark's fingers squeezed the trigger of the rifle, firing a wild twelve round burst towards the gunmen. His trigger discipline suffered from the adrenaline pumping through his body, ignoring his military training to fire in controlled bursts. Even though he had embraced his violent, inner animal, he still did not have complete control over it, and the beast favored violence of action over precision.
One of the bullets struck a gunman through his shoulder as he poked around the corner, spewing blood over the walls as it nicked an artery. The gunmen slammed into one another as they darted back behind the archway. As Mark approached, he heard the gunmen turn and run, unwilling to face the bear man's wrath.
Mark never slowed his lumbering strides until he strolled into the room before the exit. He stopped and glanced down at a cardboard box filled with loaded magazines, sitting in the doorway to the club. Mark deduced the mobsters dropped it there when they heard the gunfire. Mark quickly checked the doorway, before setting down the shotgun, keeping the AK-47 leveled in case they reemerged. His hands moved with practiced speed as he grabbed a spare magazine from the box and used it to knock the magazine release lever, ejecting the half empty one onto the floor, before replacing it with the fresh magazine.
Mark retrieved lifted his shotgun up again as he stormed through the front door, locked and loaded once more. He followed the droplets of blood that lead to a discarded AK-47 near the corner wall leading to the side of the club. As he followed the blood around the corner, he found him self staring down the barrel of what appeared to be an RPK light machine gun, pointed out of the side of a van. The large weapon, which essentially looked like just an elongated AK-47 with a long banana shaped magazine, was being operated by two men inside a black van, parked less then fifty feet away in the small parking space near the club.
One of his fleeing prey had made it half way to the van, as the RPK operator brought the light machine gun to bare. Mark, the human, would have been impressed at seeing such a beautiful piece of military hardware here in the civilian world, but the beast within couldnt care less. He squeeze the trigger of his assault rifle, while swinging down the barrel of the shotgun, firing a blast of buckshot to follow the stream of rifle rounds he pumped into the van door opening.
The man operating the RPK closed his eyes tightly as the bullets tore through the thin metal of the van, and the buckshot bounced and ricocheted around him. The mobster fired a single short burst, maybe three rounds at most, before falling to the merciless volley screaming from Mark's weapons. The fleeing mobster managed to whirl himself around and take aim with his rifle, before a bullet tore its way through the Russian's forehead, splattering the back of his head against the van's side window.
Mark spotted the mobster he tagged earlier, limping towards the back of the building attempting to flee into the alley. Mark swung the shotgun to the side before firing a blast of buckshot after him. The cloud of angry pellets tore through the back of the mobster's white blazer. The man threw his arms up dramatically, as if he was trying to claw into the air to keep himself from falling, before landing face first onto the ground.
Mark swung the shotgun back around to add its buckshot, to the stream of automatic fire pouring from his rifle into the van. Bullets and shot riddled the van as he swung the rifle side to side, punching holes through the van at the only remaining mobster that he knew of, still somewhere inside. Mark had lost track of him as he rapidly switched targets. The last he saw he was crawling towards the back of the van, keeping himself low to avoid the hail of bullets and ricochets bouncing all around him. Mark kept firing, where he felt the mobster might be, as he maintained his driven pace towards the van.
When he finally reached the van, the AK rifle's magazine had been emptied. He threw the empty rifle aside, letting it skitter against the parking lot cement as he stepped into the van with aggressive purpose. He spotted his target cowering against the floor of the van, bleeding from debris and glancing injuries. He brought the barrel of the shotgun down towards the back of the man's head and pulled the trigger. The gun made a simple click in response. The mobster's entire body jerked and winced, only to let gasp of relief when he realized he was still alive. He would soon regret that the gun had been empty.
Mark threw the gun aside in frustration, growling in the back of his throat as his big hands wrapped themselves around the mobster's blood stained jacket. He pulled the mobster from the van, jerking him around as if he was a rag doll before hurling him from the vehicle. The mobster groaned in pain as he landed on the hard concrete.
The man scrambled to his feet, trying desperately to run, but Mark's rage driven hands quickly overpowered him. Mark dragged him towards the wall of the club and threw him against it, with all of his might. The mobster slammed face first into the wall, cracking the flesh of his scalp. Warm blood gushed from his wound, smearing blood over the wall, as the mobster remained leaning against it, to dazed and injured to put up any resistance.
Mark grabbed the man's arm and swung him from the wall, swinging him in a full circle before throwing him back into the wall with devastating force. The mobster's back slammed into the wall of the club. The impact forced a gurgling groan from the mobster's throat as he collapsed into a sitting position. The mobster's vision was spinning, his eyes were distant. Mark doubted he even knew where he was anymore.
Mark took two steps back, before thrusting his big combat boot foreword. Behind his heel, was not only all of his strength, but the fat man's impressive tonnage as well. The heel of Mark's combat boot smashed the man's face into the back of his head like a half drank soda can, splashing a vivid red pattern over the wall behind it.
Mark panted, his lungs burning as he filled them with oxygen from the humid night air. His heart was beating a mile a minute, to the point where it felt like it would burst from the pressure. Mark closed his eyes as he gasped and wheezed, doing his best to regain his composure, as his invincible bear persona began to fade from his mind. Mark's inner animal was gone, leaving behind an exhausted fat man in its place. "If I make it out of here alive… I swear I'll go on a diet." Mark lied to himself.