VIOLENCE--ONTO FEROCITY...

I'm a firm believer in getting thoughts/emotions out onto paper, or, in this case, out onto the computer screen.

I think it's because I worked out with some free weights half an hour ago--maybe it's a flood of testosterone and endorphins--but, for whatever reason, I'm feeling pretty fucking violent at the moment. So, I'll write. Why not? This is my weblog, after all. (But I'll limit myself to no more than 10 paragraphs.)

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The first shot took Rudolpho in the gut, doubling him over with terrific pain. The second shot sheared off half of his head, rendering the creme wall behind him an abstract painting of red blood and gray matter. He was dead before he hit the ground. Toodles let out a triumphant yowl. "Bring it, motherfuckers!" he screamed. "Bring it!"

Toodles double-clutched his sawed-off and cut down another of the "soldiers" as he ran for the door, all pride and honor forgotten. Toodles reached for more shells and, to his dismay, realized that he had used the last of them. He pawed at his pantleg and found his backup .22 to be gone, as well. He blended to the wall and sidled down the hallway, thankful that the enemies he faced were as dumb as a sack of rocks. In the dark, his right hand found a doorway and he slid into the room. It was the kitchen. He tip-toed comically to the island-counter and selected an 8-inch butcher's knife, its blade razor-sharp.

He crouched behind the counter and waited, his heart beating evenly in his chest. He heard approaching footsteps and suddenly the kitchen was bathed in light. "I gonna check in da kitchen," intoned Guido to his compatriot. "He gotta be 'roun' here, somewheres." As Guido shuffled, apelike, around the right side of the counter, Toodles crept along the left side, always keeping behind the centerpiece of the kitchen. As Guido turned to leave the kitchen, Toodles felt the bloodlust rise in his veins again and he sprang at Guido's retreating back, burying the blade to its hilt, through the man's back and into his right lung, rendering a scream impossible. Guido gasped for breath as Toodles pulled the blade free with a rocking/sawing motion. Guido collapsed to the floor, onto his back, blood oozing from his mouth, and Toodles rose above him, his blue eyes wild, the butcher knife clasped with a death-grip between both hands and he drove it down, with a ninja's strength, through Guido's skull, just above the dazed eyes and smack-dab between the tweezed black eyebrows. The knife broke off in Guido's cranium and Toodles shrugged. He tossed the handle into the corner, where it clattered up against the wall and was then still. He'd been trained well when he had been in Special Ops--he could make a weapon out of a piece of gum.

He settled on a Bic pen.

Rick Rattazoni had heard the commotion, apparently, and he burst into the kitchen. His gaze took in the big man Guido, dead on the floor, the fat end of the blade visible still through the seeping sluggish dark red blood, and his eyes widened. With a silent scream, Toodles swung the Bic pen in a tight arc, his aim uncanny as usual. Rattazoni staggered backward, feebly clutching at the pen that was now buried through his left eye and into his brain, and he collapsed to the floor. He twitched twice and was still. As Toodles crept past the dying man, he paused long enough to kick him in the crotch. Three times. With increasing ferocity. The man's moans fell upon uninterested ears.

Toodles walked through the drughouse, preternaturally alert to any and all sounds. His highly-toned senses told him that he was alone...but not for long. Reinforcements would be arriving sooner than he would have liked. He had to get out of there. Prudence was the better part of valor, or some shit like that. He could never remember the saying.

As he walked out the back door, into the moonlit yard, again a free man, the pit bull watchdog growled. Chained to a tree, the dog was no threat to Toodles. But he had qualms about leaving a living soul alive after what they had done to him...and his wife. His innocent wife, for God's sake. They all had to pay, and canines were no exception.

Acting contrary to all of his instincts and training, Toodles paused and looked for a weapon. The dog growled again and lunged at him, snapping a foot short, teeth flashing white in the moonlight. Toodles' internal clock was blinking red. He had to go. There was no time to find a weapon. He shrugged and advanced on the dog whose only purpose in its heretofore-uneventful life had been to protect the house and its inhabitants. It could hardly be faulted for failing to protect them tonight, though, seeing as how it had been chained to a tree throughout the festivities. No quarter, thought Toodles. No fucking quarter.

His kick caught the dog square in the snout and it yelped with pain. As the dog reeled backwards, Toodles followed its movement and secured its strong neck in the crook of his beefy right arm. The dog tried fruitlessly to snap at Toodles; he held it in a firm grip. He flexed and twisted and heard the satisfying crack and the dog went limp in his arms. He allowed it to slide to the ground, covered in its own filth.

"Sorry, Charlie. You are who you hang with." With that, Toodles disappeared like a ghost into the night.

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Ah.... Much better. Who needs anger management classes? Just write them out and watch the emotions disappear into the night sky, as gossamer as spiderwebs.