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Her head exploded in a spray of teeth, hair, brains and eyeballs; the grisly, cellulite-infested carcase dropped to its knees, and I saw Mr. Wood, firmly holding his Webley, smoke drifting u[ from the barrel, as he looked down from his bed.
"Always a certain that the target of a hit has been successfully eliminated you stupid BINT."
Meanwhile Veruca had lobbed the tray of cucumber sandwiches shed been holding at the on coming gunmen, then performed the weapon-draw-backflip that I had so laboriously taught her marvelously, coming out of it with a matched pair of Walther P-38s.
"Remember, young Lady" Mr. Wood called out (spitting blood), "ALWAYS-"
"Aim for the head" she shouted in rote response, as she proceeded to do so, scoring several impressive hits.
I heard gunshots from Mr Branagh's direction, and was somewhat relieved to discover that he had found his weapon (A Walther PPK) and was also in the fight, although he yelped at every shot he fired.
I moved, striking like a cobra in my leather catsuit, chopping and snap-kicking the assassins in nerve centres, popping off the odd shot or two (It's a lovely gun, but...), driving nasal bones up into brain-cases.
Mr. Wood calmly continued firing, while his own blood poured out- The IV's to which he was attached were replacing lost fluids readily, however.
The end seemed to come upon us with frightening suddenness- All but two of the assassins were dead, but we run out of ammo.
"Oh, FUCK-ALL" said Mr. Wood, crossly.
Ken moaned in the background...
(TBC)
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