I kicked open the door.
One guy on the left. Two on the right; one seated and one standing. A takeout box on the table. Not one of the stereotypical white ones, one of the brown cardboard ones like a squashed cube. Chopsticks. A paper cup with a plastic lid and straw.
The modern breed of henchman was evidently not concerned with the plight of the humble turtle.
I started with the guy on the right. I'm right handed so I was already moving in that direction, already had the momentum to bring him down and put him out.
I stuck out my elbow ninety degrees and he ate it. His teeth broke and his head snapped back and carried him backwards into the wall, where I came in with a clumsy left, hauled back through the jelly of adrenaline and swung my arm forward and over, which I buried in his nose. It went "pop."
A rarity.
For a nose.
I put my right foot into the wall to interrupt my momentum, then pushed off with my leg and let myself fall backwards, head first.
That was the important part. Whacking someone with your neck or back doesn't do shit. But hitting someone in the forehead with the back of your skull will do more than just tickle.
So I did more than just tickle the one guy on the left of the room. I broke his nose with the back of my head and fell on top of him. I scrambled upwards again and kicked him in the torso, indiscriminately; once, twice, just to make sure the job was done, but he'd already gone to sleep when I got him in the nose.
The last conscious one of the bunch was already out of his seat at this point, and the small table rocked as his knee jostled it, and he had a gun out and was bringing it up to bear.
Desert Eagle. Israeli. Enormous.
I guess he had gotten one of the sights caught on his waistband, which had bought me a few extra seconds, but I still should've done something to put him down the moment I stepped into the room.
Stupid.
I stepped in towards him, hands outstretched like a sandwich company's spokesperson at an elementary school, and he pulled the trigger as he stumbled back, eyes wide. The gun roared and its massive slide flew backwards, rammed home, shot forward again and locked into place.
The bullet punched the air and spat about two feet to my left, which let me grab the gun barrel with my left hand and nestle my right hand into the crook of his arm. I pushed down with my right and his arm bent involuntarily, causing the pistol's deadly muzzle to be pointed up to the ceiling.
Threat reduced.
Alright. I pulled back my right and drove my elbow into his forehead and he yelped in astonishment.
Threat juiced.
I seized the opportunity and the gun and took the hand cannon and fired it an inch away from his left ear and he writhed and belted a high C as his eardrum exploded until I reversed my grip on the handheld surface-to-air missile and drove it across his jaw.
He sagged downwards with some finality and I took a breath. Picked up the paper cup on the table and took a swig.
Pepsi.
Mud.
I spat the Pepsi on the compensating-Deagle-wielder and pulled the straw out of the cup.
Picked up the two chopsticks. Held one of them in the same hand as the straw.
I knocked on the next door and immediately stepped out of the way. All of that ruckus could have woken the dead, so it was a guarantee that the goons next door had heard it. The door was immediately and loudly destroyed, first peppered with holes and finally destroyed, and I sat calmly and watched Pepsi pool around the unconscious small-penised-overcompensator.
