[b]Marcus – Garden District, Baton Rouge – Aubrey[/b]

As soon as she reached for the arrow in her quiver, Marcus' hand shot towards his waist. He was fast on the draw, but he had underestimated the woman. Just as his glock was poised to fire, the bow twanged and the broadhead screeched across the distance, piercing his thigh.
When the tip tore his skin, Marcus collapsed to one knee and roared a plethora of profanity as the metal sheared through muscle. Even stronger than the pain, however, was the adrenaline fueling his desire for a most sadistic revenge. 

As the girl turned and ran, Marcus fired three shots at her back in quick succession. His aim was shaky, but he knew at least one bullet would find its mark, and then she would pay. He earned his vindication when the third bullet caught her in the tricep.

He could tell by her reaction that she was young and inexperienced; the pain had obviously overwhelmed her, considering how hard she had crashed to the floor. She was barely stirring now and Marcus seized his opportunity. He hoisted himself up to both legs with herculean effort and stumbled towards her feeble form. The curses came spewing out of his mouth now as he felt the muscles in his thigh searing and working against the foreign object lodged inside. Every fibre was tightening around the shaft of the arrow and each step brought him great pain, but he was consumed by his objective.

Marcus rolled her over roughly and climbed onto her, pinning her down with all of his weight, both hands around her throat as he pressed firmly, squeezing his digits into her neck until he could feel her windpipe.

“You fucking degenerate,” he growled. “How quick to violence you are! Isn't it odd, how you thought [i]I[/i] was the strange one? All I did was enjoy a little dance; you tried to kill me for some colourful phrasing. Literalism will be the death of you, dear girl!”

At the last word, he breathed a theatrical sigh.

“Such a shame, we're not even on a first-name basis yet. You strike me as a Sally. Are you a Sally?”

Marcus kept his left hand wrapped around her throat, using his right to fire the glock at the sky.

“Come on, tell me your name,” he pressed. “Let's have a nice little chat. It'll be the last one you have before my friends chew the meat off your bones. You might as well enjoy it. I know you're a Sally, Sally. You've got everything Uncle John needs. Long, tall Sally!”

He listened to their hissing and shrieking in the distance: the gunfire had drawn them. Their sense of hearing was admirable for something 'dead', though they were still useless, shambling morons. To hasten their arrival, Marcus pocketed the gun and moved his hand to the girl's arm, which was now bleeding copiously. 

Flashing her a sweet smile, as though they were exchanging pleasantries over dinner, Marcus clutched and squeezed her wounded limb as hard as he could, causing carmine to spurt out even faster.