He sat, as he always sat, sitting diligently. Vague and purposefully, his trench coat trench coatingly flailing in the trenching breeze. They stood, not as they always say, standing federally. Eyes twisted and starring at things that needed to be twisted and starred at, blades glinting in bladed glintiness. A murmur murmured through the crowd, murmuring and meandering past ears filled with auditory sensations. They experienced life a new, completely a new, the new look of a missile turned to a whale.
"what is this. . ." the words sprung and echoed through the white "void."
Whip flash and crack, he whipped his gun from the folds of his trenchly coat. Rack, crack, and the bolt slides forward, the bullet belt falling onto the concrete. "Die ************, Die," the rattle of rounds echoed down the white, the bullets spaced by tracers ripping into the congealed masses. Seven seconds, space, and fire again, the bodies fell among the kick of red mist. "Shake rattle and roll baby!"
The fodder charged forward with russian haste, driven by the surge from behind them, driven directly into volleying fire. Torn and twisted they fell to be trampled, his coat floating among the spilled brass.
"Die ************, Die."
