Last I keep it by the hair and shreds her asshole stapler on beer, once, twice, three times, the fourth the eyes start from their sockets, then only tighten the grip on his temples ragged, and spills blood and brains from his face now purplish, swollen a chapel ready to explode.
- E 'antisghenicoo - Judgement sponge, but with a filthy rag tries to clean up his bar, a makeshift cemetery, consecrated to the assholes who wanted me dead.
I'm hungry, I often do after or after the kill, reach out on some peanuts scattered on the floor, I turn to the sad regulars of this shit hole and cry
- Hey, here is the party! -
I hate people who can not have fun, do not respond, I set some teeth chattering, a couple seem fainted, others are still in a trance for the performance of the little Tinker Bell, I do not see, he'll be rounding the payment under a table or in some dressing room.
No time to lick my fingers that my knuckles itch again, other henchmen emerge from the stage, firing once their repertoire, a background of guns, including a solo machine gun.
Fence often artists inexperienced, they need a conductor like me, who direct them to the creator.
pull out my revolver, growling with them as a novel Cerberus:
- Come and get me, motherfuckers! -
breaks a world-class casino.
Like hamsters in a cage, bankrupts under the stage running through the hall, squealing screams incomprehensible. Sponge covers the corpses splashed on his desk, swallowing hectoliters of beer from the bloody stapler. Maybe they can not escape, maybe someone has locked the doors and emergency exits.
is not my problem.
The confusion is precious and unexpected ally. Penetrate into the fray, and like magic bullets aimed at innocent me break through skulls and lungs. Not
last long: luck is the classic bitch that makes you smell and do not you give it. With a kick back to the table that seems more robust, by the pool, and I crouched down to secure feel inaccurate bullets cut through the air, missing my new shelter, so I join the show: without finding out, I concede to my revolver firing the last shots fucking dog.
- not human ... it seems made of steel! -
- You're right, Russia! I've downloaded on the charger ... and was even higher! -
- should stumble, spitting blood like a Bolshevik worker, but ... -
- Instead, all die! -
I hear them and despair. Weak-minded, petty hearts, there is almost no pleasure in them out.
Almost. Reloading
. Like hungry beasts, my revolver bullets engulf their favorite they call "shirtless" shatter on impact, tearing flesh and breaking up the bones, only the best for my puppies.
A light dazzles my eyes, a golden reflection, so I see, I see a fairy hovering between life and death: it is Tinker Bell. A potato chip blonde, dirty with ketchup. E 'injury, bleeding from his ass angel, maybe it was hit by a stray bullet, or what the fuck I know, not going anywhere in those conditions, you drag around the room as just a fag butt when a henchman on his shoulders. I have a good view from here, I could hit it in the chest, but I do not. In the beating of wings come in a thinly-veiled a closet, which closes just as quickly.
They want her alive.
Continued ...
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