ROUND 4 - блядь ! (LYNCH KILL)

Boris fell back against the wall, taking the hits with his chin held high and his bowler still on his head. The accusations had started with whispers hours ago, but he had somehow managed to avoid the finger pointing until the last mangled body had been found. That was pretty good for an honest man doing honest work, but to die in the bourgeoisie idol of greed – that was more than a man like he could take.

Turning his head to the side, he spit out the mouthful of blood and smiled a gruesome toothy grin. ‘атасный! Excellent! You бабник – yes I watch you, you…Green, you бабломёт letting this happen in your place of bizness,’ his Russian started to spill over into his already poor English, irritating him and infuriating the crowd further.

‘This is a баян, a…story that has been told many times before. You are too stupid to запалить - too see the end. I see pictures,’ Boris pointed to his head, ‘…pictures with two ends, but the same…they are the same.’

Pointing at the crowd he narrowed his swelling eyes and blew the blood coming out of his nose with a knuckle, not caring where the red splattered. ‘You are all nothing but быдло…cattle, being used. Do you not see this?’

Brandishing his pocket knife, he held it out, jabbing at some of the mob that had dared to move forward. ‘Come now – you остопиздеть me…waste my time. Let us махач. Let us fight!’

Boris pushed forward, slashing at one of the customers. The streaming blood stung his eyes, making them even more bloodshot than the vodka had done, blinding him and obscuring his peripheral vision enough that he didn’t see two others come up on his flanks. It was too late when he finally realized it and was pushed to the ground with angry, stomping feet; crushing his skull, pulverizing his ribs, turning his fingers into gristle and mush.

Finally, Boris lay in a heap on the conference room floor. He felt hands on him, his two arms and useless two legs, carrying him down the steps into the darkness. The silence.

The vault.

Chuckling as they left him, he opened his eyes but they were too filled with blood to see anything, not that he needed them. The smell of the dead around him had already filled the room. The mechanic, the reporter, the homeless man, the Special Agent man…they were all here with him.

‘запендюрить,’ he mumbled through broken teeth. ‘Idiots.’