Hastily-Thought-Out but Violent- and Long-As-Fuck Story

In his hands, The Canadian gripped solidly on to a long, hard, black whip. He stared bitterly at the pathetic slave-boy, huddled into a corner, covered in bruises and whimpering softly, before striking out with his whip again and lashing him across the face, leaving a deep red cut. “You deserve everything you get,” The Canadian growled at the broken human. Whipping in-between adjectives, he snarled, “you disgusting, scummy, cunting bastard.”

The Jew lamely wiped the blood out of his eyes and began to cry again. The Canadian commanded him to go outside and cut the front lawn with a pair of nail scissors. The Jew knew he had no power to disobey him – the constant whippings had destroyed his soul and his spine and he had submitted entirely to The Canadian, who relished in control.

Snipping the stalks of grass with the tiny scissors, he looked back over the conversation. He didn’t deserve this treatment. Sure, he’d made mistakes, but who hadn’t? He didn’t want the baby to remember for its sake so he’d knocked it out, and he didn’t expect the buggery to kill it, and he didn’t expect confiding in The Canadian to result in this constant blackmail and slavery. He’d had enough of it.

The crushed, tormented being was fighting back, desperate for freedom. He was tied by his ankle to a post in the middle of the lawn, which allowed him to just about reach every bit of lawn with his nail scissors, and he’d done this job before. Countless times. It normally took him about 28 hours and by the end of it he was a shivering wreck. The Canadian would stand over him, usually, inflicting a barrage of constant torture upon him, but today The Jew could see the back of his head, looking out of the window at the back of the kitchen and drinking a cup of tea.

Seizing his chance, The Jew began to try to saw through the rope around his ankle with the nail scissors. They quickly bend and broke and became completely useless. The Jew shivered when he realised how The Canadian would react to the evidence of this escape attempt. He tried to gnaw through the rope with his mouth, but it was too tough.

Shit, he thought. What should I do? I’ll get beaten to death if The Canadian sees this here, and he will unless I can escape. He began to sweat. He looked down at the rope tied around his ankle and his mind began to race.

A solution suddenly formed. This was a bit like that movie, he thought, with those two guys in the bathroom. He brought his mouth down to his ankle and tentatively bit into it.

It was painful and he found it difficult to fight against his instincts, which were preventing him from drawing blood. Eventually, the skin began to give way, and, with a chomp, he bit a hunk of flesh out.

The blood drained from his head as he looked in panic at the mess in front of him. Blood was beginning to pool in the grass and seep in. There was no time to lose, he thought, battling through the pain with more fight in him than a car-crash victim. He tore another hunk of flesh out and spat it on the floor. He dug his hands into the bloody hole he had formed and tugged, pulling muscle out and tearing the skin further.

His foot was near to falling off now. He worked his way to the bone, glancing at The Canadian who began to rise and picked up his whip. There was little time to lose now, he thought, and worked away at his ankle more desperately. The door to the house opened and The Canadian began to walk out. With a final, desperate tug, The Jew snapped the bone in his ankle and the foot fell off, leaving a trail of loose muscles and veins and pouring blood at its stump. He hopped into the safety of a neighbour’s bush and hid just as The Canadian marched on to the front lawn, brandishing his weapon and looking pissed off.

He stormed over to the bloody puddle with the foot nearby, picked it up, and wiped his face with it, leaving dark crimson marks over his forehead and cheeks. “I’ll fucking kill you, The Jew,” he vowed to the hushed silence, and slammed the foot to the hard earth, smashing it in an explosion of gory chunks and bone marrow. To The Jew’s astonishment, he then pulled an AK-47 out of his back pocket and shot a round into the air. I’m fucked, he thought.

The Canadian set off down the street in a manic run, searching wildly for The Jew and with the AK slung over his shoulder. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself over and over again. Would The Jew report him to the police? That’d definitely result in his incarceration, too, though – the dirty fuck, raping and killing that kid – it was fucking unforgivable, he thought, and if the police came to arrest him he’d be sure to snitch. I shouldn’t have kept him prisoner, though, he thought, I should’ve killed him early on in our relationship for my own safety. If the law gets involved, we’re both fucked. The best thing for me to do right now is to kill The Jew – send a bullet through his brain and end this mess now.

Perhaps he could report The Jew, and get the cops looking for him, and his story would just be too wild and wacky for the police to believe! Fuckin’ Hell, maybe that’d be the stupidest thing I could ever do, though – perhaps I’d drop myself in it entirely, and he’s got a missing foot and loads and loads of whip-marks and scars and bruises and staples in his scrotum – he’s an obvious torture victim.

The Jew waited until The Canadian was far enough away before he began to cry. He stared with disbelief at his leg, with its missing foot. He glanced at the remains of it in the middle of the lawn – a completely unsalvageable wreck; any attempt to save it would be completely futile.

He took his t-shirt off and wrapped it around the stump. I’d better get the fuck away from here, he thought. Medical attention is so important, too – I’m feeling faint, I’m losing blood, and I’m an emotional cripple – I need help! He heaved himself to his foot and hopped down the street, the way The Canadian didn’t go.

Do I want to escape from him, or do I want to kill him, he asked himself. He roared with confusion and distress and hopped as fast as he could and as far away as he could, before, exhausted and weak, he collapsed in a heap on the front doorstep of someone who lived about 300 yards away.

The owner of the house opened the door gently and looked with concern at the shrivelled and destroyed specimen in front of him, crawling and writhing by his shoes, his tear-stained face pleading to him and his foot replaced with a bloodstained t-shirt.

“Who are you?” The Jew whispered, a pathetic wreck. “Help me!”

“You’re in luck,” the owner replied. “I’m The Doctor.”

He welcomed The Jew into his home and looked at his gnawed ankle, leaking blood like a faucet; he was getting paler and paler as his body drained like a kosher cow – a cow cut by an unskilled killer using his teeth and going for the wrong place. “Hmmm… The Doctor muttered. “What happened here then?”

The Jew replied, “I bit it off. It’s a long story, sort of; at least a few thousand characters.”

The Doctor sighed and reached for a bottle of bleach. “This is to halt any potential infection,” he said.

“What?” The Jew choked. “What the fuck are you doing? You’re not a real doctor anyway – it’s just a Doctor Who reference – let go of the fucking bleach!”

“Sit still and stop squirming,” he shouted back, pressing the nozzle and spraying bleach into his stump. The Jew shrieked with pain as the bleach dissolved his nerve endings and burst blood vessels and tried to crawl out of the house, fighting like a soldier through the pain.

“Where are you going? Get back here!” The Doctor was brandishing a gun and pointing it at The Jew. “It’s tranquilliser darts. I’ve still got work to do!”

The writhing mass on the floor moaned with agony. His leg felt like it was on fire. He’d die to be unconscious, but in this man’s company with this man treating him? Get fucked. I’d rather take my chances. He tried to crawl out of the front door, shuffling himself forwards like a missionary, but it was useless and he got shot anyway. The bullet ruptured his jeans, flew straight through his anus, and pierced his rectum. Half a second later, he was asleep.

The Doctor looked at the body, a little confused. He had no idea what he was doing and he had no real medical training at all. He began to search his house for anything else that might be useful, maybe. A blowtorch? Perhaps he could solder his leg together – any chance that would work? He pictured himself burning holes straight through, choking on the black acrid smoke of burning flesh. It wasn’t a bad idea though. Perhaps cellotape – no, that’ll be messy and fall off…

Fuckin’ superglue! Of course! He could superglue whatever bits of flesh he could together, and perhaps it’d look lovely. He felt a bit like those concentration camp doctors – it was a bit like someone had presented him with a wounded body and said, “improvise!” There was nothing on TV and he couldn’t be arsed going to the cinema, so this was enough to fight off boredom for a day, right?

He pulled at the flesh and wrapped it up a bit like a Christmas present, supergluing all the sides and blotting blood away with a warm damp towel. He can’t lose blood any more, surely, he figured, because skin was in the way.

Stepping back, he admired his handiwork. He dragged the unconscious body of The Jew on to the pavement and went back indoors to watch Judge Judy.

Behind the closed eyes, The Jew saw his foot get torn off in a million different ways. He saw The Canadian leaping after him, a ferocious, fierce ogre, spitting venom and firing his AK-47 wildly in the air, bullets thudding into his chest and leaving through his back, sending streaks of lung behind him. He saw himself killing The Canadian back in countless ways – dropping an anvil on his head, kicking him off a cliff, but these all seemed to rely too much on everyone being in the right place at the right time. He saw himself brandishing guns, knives, swords and shirukens, killing The Canadian in a fountain of dark red glory.

Meanwhile, The Canadian himself cruised the streets in his low-rider, planning to drive-by the motherfucker. His fertile mind was brewing up evil ways to put an end to his problem. What were the chances he could get into political power and become the next Hitler? That’d probably put an end to his problem. Well, in this day and age, probably very slim. The general populace are on the lookout for Hitlers in office nowadays. Fuckin’ liberals.

Where the fuck had The Jew gone? He can’t have gotten far – he had no foot. Unless, of course, it was a clever decoy, planted there, to confuse me, while he ran away and hijacked a car or whatever.

He turned up his Vanilla Ice CD and rolled down his windows, his gun on his lap. I’d find him soon enough. All I have to do is drive around and look menacing. He felt supremely ghetto, listening to Ice Ice Baby in his Russian Lada – his machismo had been boosted and his balls were swelling.

He lit up a cigar and felt the smoke tingle his tongue before blowing it out in smoke rings. He nodded his head to the beat of the music and rapped along. This is what it’s all about, he thought. I now know what Vanilla Ice was speaking about. This is life. The thrill of the hunt – fuckin’ immense.

The Jew awoke slowly and groggily; his body was dangerously low on red blood. The first thing he dizzily noticed was that his stump was infected and smelt very strongly of pus and rotting flesh. He shook his head and focused harder. He was still alive, and no longer bleeding, but it looked like he needed medical attention more than ever. He gradually realised the pain – a swelling, pulsating pain, like his ankle had been dipped in a jar of wasps. Curiously, he felt an extraordinary amount of pain from what felt like his missing foot – like it was being hammered with a sledgehammer.

He pulled himself up and searched the surrounding area for something to keep him upright. He discovered a rake in a back garden, which he used as a cane and felt confident that he could use as a weapon. Should he thank The Doctor? He was fucking useless, sort of. At least he stemmed the blood. He was fucking horrible though.

The pussy spots on his stump began to burst and dribble, the smelly boils erupting and dribbling bacteria-laden syrupy cheese. Fuckin’ concentrate, he thought. I need to fuckin’ concentrate. I need to survive.

The Canadian was surviving well. He had bought himself a McDonalds and was sitting in his car with the heating on and smoking a fat blunt. Those guys on the internet were right, he thought. This is pretty fuckin’ nice.

The Jew hobbled along the canal bank, trying to pull his splitting head together. The urge to live was overpowering, and his bleary eyes were furrowed in focus and tension as his body willed itself to fight through its troubles. He began to gag from the fumes of his rotting leg. His mouth formed into a half-smile as the reality of his situation and the near inevitability of death seeped into his brain. The Canadian was packin’ heat, and I was a cripple with a rake.

He looked down at his weapon, rubbing a hand up and down the hard surface of it and grinning. He then looked at his rake. It was rusting and a little bent, but with a decent swing he could cause a lot of damage. He lifted it up and practiced attacking an imaginary on-coming The Canadian. He swang the rake with all his might and lost control of his one foot, splashing in the canal and sending a geyser of water into the air.

It took him a few seconds to realise what had happened. He’d realised his attack had gone badly, but he couldn’t yet fathom out how in his delirious state. It’s only when he inhaled a lungful of filthy canal water that he began to struggle, trying to reach the surface and kicking frantically with both legs. He cut his stump against a broken glass bottle and roared with pain. It was tender and it was bleeding again – shit. He reached the shore and dragged himself out, choking and coughing up water before finding his rake and picking himself up.

He looked at his stump. Blood was dribbling out as fast as it would from a decent knife laceration. He looked in the water. A dead fish, lay on its side, looked back at him from the middle. Pond scum, floating chicken-bones, and skipfulls of assorted litter, looked back at him. That’s no good, he thought. That spells disaster for the remains of my leg. I’ve got to get fuckin’ gangrene or something now. Fuck me. Fuck it. Fuck.

He hobbled down the canal further, hoping to at least put some distance between himself and The Canadian. A bridge crossed it, with traffic noises roaring above and a tramp moaning Mexican love songs beneath. He looked apprehensively at the hobo, who looked like a savage motherfucker – his tanned face scarred with knife-wounds and a Taekwondo costume on.

He edged carefully past him, avoiding making eye contact. “‘Ey, yoo,” the tramp snarled in a thick Mexican accent. “Hamputee boy, yoo!”

The Jew looked forlornly at his stump once more. The pain was gnawing away at him, his rotting skin flaking off, pimply and sceptic and totally disgusting. He turned to the tramp. Fuck it, he was pissed off. He looked at him menacingly, indicating at the rake, and growled back, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The Mexican laughed, and muttered, “According to the pattern of naming in this story, I ham

The Mexican!”

A swift kick hit The Jew in the face and he sprawled on the floor, even more dazed. The Mexican looked at his stump and rubbed the erection in his pants. He did this to a lot of amputees. Usually, they’d kill themselves in the river afterwards.

He pulled down his jeans and his boxer shorts to reveal his stumpy, solid penis, and began to masturbate. The Jew tried to focus on the Mexican hobo in front of him desperately, his veins burning with adrenaline and his barely conscious mind screaming at him to run, to save himself, that he was in great danger, but he was too tired and dizzy to move, and could only roll over and groan.

The Mexican picked up his stump and examined it carefully. It was inflamed and swollen and dripping bacteria and dead white blood cells and goo like the inside of a cheese and onion pie. He stuck his tongue out and licked it, savouring the palette of flavours.

He stuck two fingers into his anus and worked it open. With the other hand, he picked up The Jew’s stump, with The Jew attached, gasping on the floor and beginning to turn pale, and shoved it deep into his rectum. He groaned and grinned, riding the septic limb with it stuck firmly in his arse like Paris Hilton rides small nuclear missiles.

Whoa, he thought. It’s always a really powerful experience, such anal amputee leg-fisting. The pressure he felt on his guts was enormous, and tickled his prostate excitedly.

The Jew slapped himself across the face and began to pay attention to his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was, his leg hurt even more than before. Then he noticed that the tramp had it shoved deep up his arse – a large, hairy arse, obscuring most of his view and stretched open massively. The blisters were popping and chafing against his intestinal walls, which were in turn bleeding all down his leg. The concoction of liquids was almost unimaginable. Liquid faeces dripped out of his ring in globules of pus.

Holy fucking shit, The Jew thought, before passing out.

The Mexican came in his pants and smiled as the warm semen dripped down his legs and clung to his thighs in grisly residue, and turned back to The Jew, who, in his sleep, was probably sinking into manic depression. “Mwahahahahahaha,” The Mexican laughed, Mexican-style. “Mwahahahahahaha, I like tacos.”

A situation like this, he reasoned, needed sadistic torture. This poor cunt looked like he’d already had quite a lot of it, but The Mexican was quite openly a sadist, who revelled in other’s sorrow. He rooted through his pockets for a suitable instrument.

Normally The Mexican would just cut off a few fingers after this, but he was overcome by how powerful he felt standing above the completely devastated body of The Jew. His arse was leaking gooey shit on the inside of his boxers and joining the bacteria-farm in his gusset, with fungi growing and spitting spores over his dripping penis. He had a few tools in his pockets – a key, a lighter, a pen, and of course his switchblade – which he thought he would experiment with. He took off The Jew’s remaining shoe and removed the shoelace, tying his arms above his head with it tightly.

He had both legs free, and one was fully functioning, though. What could he do to resolve this? He stripped The Jew naked and took off his belt, tying it tightly around his knees. He looked completely trapped now. It was time to get creative, The Mexican thought.

He slapped The Jew across the face a few times until he awoke. He stared, paralysed with fear, into the manic eyes of The Mexican the maniac, who twitched aggressively and started to drool, dripping saliva over The Jew’s face.

He first took out the key and held it above The Jew’s eyes, smiling sinisterly. He dragged the key down his chest and to his belly, before picking it up and stabbing it straight through his gut, smashing through the skin and muscle and sending a small explosion of blood into the air. The Jew screamed in agony as The Mexican picked up the dull key and stabbed him in the gut again, before thrusting it into his chest, stabbing him eight times like a frenzy killing, and perforating him like a pin-cushion.

The Jew moaned and tried to clutch his wounds frantically, the pain searing across his skin and spasming up his spine. The Mexican laughed and punched him to the temple with the key lodged in his fist, smashing through his skull and leaving a deep puncture mark on the side of his head that dribbled on the grass.

It was so unbearable The Jew began to lapse in and out of blackouts, his mind swamped with bizarre and extreme pain. The Mexican looked at his other instruments and cracked his knuckles menacingly.

Meanwhile, The Canadian had begun to get a bit nervous. How did he expect to find The Jew? He could be anywhere. He’d driven around and looked menacing for long enough, and needed to do something actually useful. He pulled over and took out his ‘phone and got in touch with the local mercenary-for-hire company.

His mercenary was called ‘Arsekrabs’, and was apparently an evil motherfucker who took great pleasure in hunting and killing motherfuckers. “I’m trying to kill a paedo,” he told him, pulling out a picture of The Jew and showing it to Arsekrabs. He was a big, bad, evil-looking motherfucker, who went under the alias ‘The Turk’, and he was tooled up and an expert hunter and trail-follower.

He drove him to his front lawn and showed him the bloody trail, telling him he had torn off the paedo’s foot to protect some little kid. The Turk examined it and followed it up the road, with The Canadian tagging along behind him, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a pot of glue under his nose.

The Mexican still had three tools to go. The lighter, now, he thought – I’d imagine I could cause some severe localised pain with this. He flicked it open, held The Jew’s face with one hand, and held the lighter against The Jew’s cheek with the other. His face quickly began to turn red and heat up and he began to shriek manically. This couldn’t get any worse, he thought – really, it couldn’t get any worse. Fuckin’ Hell, fuckin’ Hell, his entire body was shaking with pain, every muscle clenched to fight through it, and now the smell of burning skin was reaching his nostrils, his cheek was beginning to taste of ash, he felt like he was melting – he tried to pay attention but could only focus on the pain – the eternal and sadistic pain that this hobo rapist was inflicting on him.

The Mexican first noticed the welts forming. The skin eventually began to turn a charred black, and he managed to burn a hole through like a piece of tissue paper. He smelt far worse than the acrid miasma burning from the guy’s mouth.

Feeling fulfilled in that location, he moved to the nose. Scarring faces made him feel pretty good, he thought. It’s nice to know that someone will be definitely scarred for life across their fucking face because of me – a series of brutal scars everyone will notice – that will haunt them for eternity. Nasal hair began to crackle and pop inside The Jew’s nostrils, the thin skin coating his nose bubbling and melting above his eyes. He struggled to twist his head and evade the hobo but his weak and tired attempts were useless against a Taekwondo master.

He brought the lighter down to the sole of his remaining foot and began to burn the skin there, sending a rich meaty odour into the air. Mark ‘Chopper’ Read did this, he thought – what a fuckin’ inspiration that man is to us torturers. The Jew frantically tried to twitch his foot away from the flame, but The Mexican had it in his vice-like grip and it was impossible to move. His body writhed in agony and wretched moans burbled from his mouth. His burns were beginning to blister, his key-hole wounds jarring and dull, his missing foot and deeply infected leg sizzling, bleeding continually and covered in shit.

The lighter went out, and failed to light again. Fuck it, he thought. Switchblade time, you fucking motherfucker. The Mexican looked with bewilderment at his ten fingers. He couldn’t be doing with this. He wasn’t interested in the bollocks about starting with the little pinkie finger and moving up to the more important ones – he wanted maximum effect. He wanted there to be no chance of a useful life afterwards – that his savage butchery would make the next few years Hell until a period of recuperation and re-learning basic skills had brought The Jew back to the level of a mentally-retarded infant who had finally given up hope of getting better – he wanted a total fucking victory. The Jew just wanted to die.

The switchblade quickly cut off the index finger. The Jew was instantly aware a finger was missing – a deep sting hitting him in the root of his knuckles, smashing through nerves like a runaway train across a motorway.

The Mexican witnessed it to a more satisfactory level. A spurt of blood quickly shot out as his finger popped off like a champagne cork – like it had been designed to pop off. He grinned as The Jew slowly tried to clutch his hands into a fist as part of the realisation of his new handicap and as part of a hedgehog-style self-defence mechanism. The Mexican quickly plied it open and cut off the thumb on that hand too.

Hahahaha, fuck being able to pick up stuff, you unfortunate cunt, he thought, in Spanish. Blood drained from his hand quite quickly and his veins showed at the top of his muscles, losing blood pressure quickly and smashing holes in his consciousness. Pain was absolute, The Jew thought. I hope I die soon, please let me die soon.

The Mexican snicked off the index finger and thumb off the other hand too, sending bloody confetti over the grass. The ear is too clich of course, he thought, for a switchblade. I don’t want to copy Reservoir Dogs.

He picked up the pen and poked it into his finger. Too cliche for a fucking switchblade, of course, but not for a pen. The Jew was struggling to keep his eyes awake, finally starting to fight back and resist properly through the pain, as The Mexican pinned his head down and shove the pen down his ear canal.

A blood-curdling scream reached The Canadian and The Turk’s ears as they followed the trail of blood away from The Doctor’s house. “That’s the motherfucker,” The Canadian yelled at The Turk. “At the fucking canal. For fuck’s sake, you fucking fucker, fucking move.”

The Mexican forced the pen further and further in. The Jew felt it pressing against his ear-drum, drawing a neat little dot in the middle of it, before bursting through and finding itself in his inner ear. It was harder to push it in now, and The Mexican put a lot of his weight on it, as it burst through skin and muscle and eventually found its way into his brain, stabbing a hole through the membrane and digging a tunnel deep into the middle of his head.

The Jew quickly stopped bothering trying to focus as he suffered massive and irreparable brain damage. He could feel the build-up of pressure and he was throbbing with fear, still trying to scream but only drooling and groaning, as he became closer to being a Terri Schiavo. The Mexican pulled the pen out and blood started to bubble out of his ear, whilst seeping through his brain and turning it into mush.

The Mexican stood up as The Jew rolled on the floor and clutched his head. Victory was assured now, he thought. Pens are fucking useful. He tugged at The Jew’s pants, pulling them down smoothly, before throwing them in the river and pulling off his underpants. The Jew’s penis lay, shrivelled and frightened, as the shield of clothes was removed. The Mexican wiped the blood off the pen under his arm and shoved it into his urethra, pushing it straight down like his unerect penis was impaled on it. The Jew’s mushy, barely functioning brain realised this and finally allowed him to scream again. The words ‘pain’ and ‘childbirth’ came confusedly to the forefront of his gooey, inkstained and bloody mind but he couldn’t really understand them.

The Canadian and The Turk had arrived at the canal and could hear his scream much more easily now. Like soldiers, they sprinted along the bank until they could see The Jew being tortured. The Turk held up his sniper rifle. “I can kill him now,” he muttered.

The Canadian squinted at the blood-covered body underneath The Mexican. He didn’t deserve this torture. “Do it,” he sighed, finally feeling empathy.

The Turk looked through the scope and began to throw up. “He’s got a pen in his willy,” he gasped. “You can see through the fuckin’ scope. Fuck me, that’s disgusting.”

“I don’t fucking care,” The Canadian roared. “Are you not human? This is almost euthanasia – kill him right now, you fucker. Please.”

The Turk’s finger trembled on the trigger. He tried to think of other things as he lined the gun up with The Jew’s forehead. The Mexican guy who was attacking him was insane – he was stood above him, about to stamp on the impaled dick, snapping the plastic cheap-as-fuck biro pen inside his urethra – that’s fucking disgusting – what kind of sick bastard would even think about that?

The Mexican stamped and The Jew screamed again. He lifted his foot up to look at the car-accident of a penis – it was bent and broken and bleeding everywhere. “Hahahahah,” he laughed again.

The bullet flew through the still, calm air like a missile. The Turk was an expert marksman, and, if the bullet had feelings, it would be grateful to have been shot by him. It would’ve loved to have the wind in its hair as it soared so majestically, but it didn’t have hair either. Rather, it was entirely passive, eventually reaching the middle of The Jew’s head and exploding through it, travelling like the channel tunnel through his skull and bursting out of the back with a trail of grey matter and blood following.

The Mexican was a little pissed off that his sadism had been ended without him intending for it to happen, and span around to the location of the bullet. The Turk noticed and aimed again, but his chamber was empty and he had to reload. He ducked for cover.

The Canadian was ready, willing and able though, standing up, pulling his AK-47 off his shoulder and taking aim at the tank of The Mexican. “Hasta la vista, baby,” he said robotically, briefly thinking it was a funny line. He sprayed bullets at him, but The Mexican ducked and dived and swooped out of the way like a hawk before pulling a Magnum out and blasting The Canadian with a shot in the chest. The Canadian fell to his knees and coughed out a bit of blood before, in his final breaths, returning fire again.

The Turk threw three grenades. One exploded in the canal, harming the delicate ecosystem, one landed in front of The Mexican, who kicked it back, with it exploding in mid-air and sending shrapnel in everyone’s face, and he forgot to pull the pin off the other, which bounced harmlessly next to the still body of The Jew.

The Mexican was astonished at everyone’s will to live and took aim once more. A bullet flew past his thigh and one hit him in the kneecap, which buckled under his weight. Another hit him in the hand with the gun in, blasting off fingers and making him drop it. The Canadian fell face-first into the ground and a pool of blood formed, leaking out of his lungs and flowing from his lips like a Catholic fountain.

The Turk took a new look at the situation. He didn’t want to use his sniper-rifle anymore – now was his chance to shine. He put his combat knife in his sock and approached the disarmed The Mexican with a small pistol drawn.

“You gonna chill?” he asked. “We cool?”

“No, hombre,” The Mexican replied, throwing himself up and flipping in the air to land on his feet. “I’m like a supervillian or something.” He lunged for his Magnum with his remaining hand and shot in The Turk’s direction, who returned fire with expert precision and killed him instantly, with 4 shots directly on his heart before strolling over to him and unloading the entire chamber into his face.

“Get fucked,” The Turk snarled, considering how mint his job was.

“Yeah, motherfucker, and fuck you,” the voice of someone who’s spastic or has had a stroke or something replied – y’know – the sorrowful and unintelligible ‘uuuh’ kinda voice. The Jew was sat upright, his face a ghostly pale, with blood and liquidised brain flowing like a tap from the hole on his forehead. He was grinning. The unexploded grenade was sailing towards The Turk in a casual underarm throw. He looked at it, arching gracefully in the sky in a particularly beautiful fashion. He tried to say ‘shit’ but blew up too quickly.

The Jew lay back down and closed his eyes, finally dying contented.