Larsen is a college professor, and our Killer is a piece of Las Vegas muscle. Even the weakest piece of Vegas meat is still pretty damn tough. True, Brad had the adrenaline rush of watching his wife die. Still, I can't believe Mr. College Boy turned into Muhammad Ali, wiping his kitchen up with the Killer. I have to believe the struggle was dead even, until it reached the back deck.
The back deck is where everything fell apart. As I understand it, the Killer wound up on the ground, and was reaching for a small pistol tucked in the back of his trousers. (Probably for emergencies ... and hey, this qualified.) Brad saw him reaching for it, however, and kicked the gun out of his hand quicker than you could say, "Die, you scummy bastard."
Gun went airborne; clattered to the wooden slats. Brad nabbed it. Quoted some poetry at the Killer.
"It was the last thing I'd read before watching Alison die," Brad told me. "All I could think of through each punch, jab and kick, were the words: Mark but this flea. It kept me alive."
Then, Brad shot the Killer in the kneecap.
"Right then, I knew what I was going to do," Brad told me. "I was going to take this pistol, and shoot one bodypart at a time. I was going to make this man die slowly, and screaming, in inverse proportion to the time it took Alison to die. I wanted him to reflect on what he had done, and let the lesson burn into his soul before he left this world. First, the kneecap--I'd read somewhere that rupturing the knee hurts like hell itself, but is non-fatal. Then a wrist. Then, maybe an ankle. A shoulder. The other kneecap.
Brad never got to shooting the wrist, because behind him--out of nowhere--came a blinding pain in his back, as if God himself had decided to stick a cocktail toothpick through his entire body. Brad dropped the pistol.
He hurled his body around, only to receive a similar shock to his upper chest, right above his heart . Is this a heart attack from the stress of it all? he'd thought. Am I being struck down before I can completely devolve into an animal?
Not quite. Brad's eyes managed to focus, and he realized somebody was stabbing him.
He lifted his left arm to shield another blow, but the knife plunged right through his forearm. The blade lingered there, caught between the opposing forces of Brad attempts to dislodge it and the Wielder's attempts to draw it back. Brad saw his attacker: a young woman, with red lips. That's all he saw. Call her Killer Number Two.
The knife ripped free and slid back into Brad's left shoulder. Then out again and across his chest, bisecting his right nipple. Down, across three of his fingers.
At this point, Brad did what any sane person would do: retreated. His legs, still fully operational, shuffled him back, out of harm's way, until he tripped over a wooden slat that was a fraction of an inch higher than its companions and crash-landed on his ass. The knife was on him again, pushing into his stomach. Brad rolled, and started to crawl forward. Sharp blows hit him in the back, the fury and power intensifying with each strike. Killer Number Two was trying to nail him to the floor.
Brad's salvation: the wooden railing, three feet away. He crawled for it, despite repeated blows. His hand reached the middle rung, and grabbed it tight. He looked behind him and saw Killer Number One crawling on the floor, too. Crawling for the gun Brad had dropped.
Brad reached for the top rung, wrapped his fingers around it, and was wracked with the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life. It was as if God had pushed the base of his spinal cord into a food processor. He turned his head, and saw the knife buried to the hilt in his right shoulder. Killer Number Two was walking away.
Brad was able to turn his head once more, and saw Killer Number Two bending over to grab the gun Killer Number One was so desperate to reach. He faced forward again and coughed; felt blood dribble from his lips. He placed both hands on the top rung and somehow managed
The back deck is where everything fell apart. As I understand it, the Killer wound up on the ground, and was reaching for a small pistol tucked in the back of his trousers. (Probably for emergencies ... and hey, this qualified.) Brad saw him reaching for it, however, and kicked the gun out of his hand quicker than you could say, "Die, you scummy bastard."
Gun went airborne; clattered to the wooden slats. Brad nabbed it. Quoted some poetry at the Killer.
"It was the last thing I'd read before watching Alison die," Brad told me. "All I could think of through each punch, jab and kick, were the words: Mark but this flea. It kept me alive."
Then, Brad shot the Killer in the kneecap.
"Right then, I knew what I was going to do," Brad told me. "I was going to take this pistol, and shoot one bodypart at a time. I was going to make this man die slowly, and screaming, in inverse proportion to the time it took Alison to die. I wanted him to reflect on what he had done, and let the lesson burn into his soul before he left this world. First, the kneecap--I'd read somewhere that rupturing the knee hurts like hell itself, but is non-fatal. Then a wrist. Then, maybe an ankle. A shoulder. The other kneecap.
Brad never got to shooting the wrist, because behind him--out of nowhere--came a blinding pain in his back, as if God himself had decided to stick a cocktail toothpick through his entire body. Brad dropped the pistol.
He hurled his body around, only to receive a similar shock to his upper chest, right above his heart . Is this a heart attack from the stress of it all? he'd thought. Am I being struck down before I can completely devolve into an animal?
Not quite. Brad's eyes managed to focus, and he realized somebody was stabbing him.
He lifted his left arm to shield another blow, but the knife plunged right through his forearm. The blade lingered there, caught between the opposing forces of Brad attempts to dislodge it and the Wielder's attempts to draw it back. Brad saw his attacker: a young woman, with red lips. That's all he saw. Call her Killer Number Two.
The knife ripped free and slid back into Brad's left shoulder. Then out again and across his chest, bisecting his right nipple. Down, across three of his fingers.
At this point, Brad did what any sane person would do: retreated. His legs, still fully operational, shuffled him back, out of harm's way, until he tripped over a wooden slat that was a fraction of an inch higher than its companions and crash-landed on his ass. The knife was on him again, pushing into his stomach. Brad rolled, and started to crawl forward. Sharp blows hit him in the back, the fury and power intensifying with each strike. Killer Number Two was trying to nail him to the floor.
Brad's salvation: the wooden railing, three feet away. He crawled for it, despite repeated blows. His hand reached the middle rung, and grabbed it tight. He looked behind him and saw Killer Number One crawling on the floor, too. Crawling for the gun Brad had dropped.
Brad reached for the top rung, wrapped his fingers around it, and was wracked with the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life. It was as if God had pushed the base of his spinal cord into a food processor. He turned his head, and saw the knife buried to the hilt in his right shoulder. Killer Number Two was walking away.
Brad was able to turn his head once more, and saw Killer Number Two bending over to grab the gun Killer Number One was so desperate to reach. He faced forward again and coughed; felt blood dribble from his lips. He placed both hands on the top rung and somehow managed
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