So many, angry, mad Masters. Dozens of them, in their white coats, with their gaping mouths and trembling paws. Disgusting, filthy, sick humans. Wiinston puts them down as they come, using his two front teeth as pole drivers on their weak, rotten skulls. He doesn't like the taste of them much, and winces with each attack, but they are angry Masters, and they keep trying to hurt him. They are strong, and they are relentless, but he is stronger, and he is more relentless. Two years of confusion, pain and terror, released in a storm of violence. 

He holds one up against the wall of the Bad Room, where the Masters would gather to look at Winston through big glass windows. With a snarl, he tears its head from its neck, but not before its teeth latch onto his snout. 

"RAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" He picks the head up, and throws it at the glass; it bounces back at him, narrowly misses his face, and smashes against the wall behind like a pumpkin. 

There are glowing windows all around. They yell alarms at Winston, they scream at him in tones he cannot understand; his chest thuds quicker, and a pain soon emerges. When he was in his prison, he remembered how the Masters never used the sparky stick on him. The spark stick, they had said, would kill him because of his chest. What was up with his chest? Sparky bad. Glowing screens sparky. 

Winston bolted from the room, exiting on the other side. 

More lurching Masters were waiting for him. They moaned, and came towards him; he was tired, and a little light headed, but he was also angry. Angry enough to kill a few more Masters. 

"RAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"