“[i]Before I leave for more pressing matters, one of you has much further to fall. Let's find out why. Marc, would you do the honors[/i]?”

The grizzly-clad elephant in the darkest elbow of the room jarred from its statuesque hibernation; his syncytial gaze riddled with the light of oblivion, an Egyptian herald to the young accountants, of ten plagues to come towards a briefer lifespan. The objective was torture, slow and beautiful, to demolish the intent of the pawns in order to checkmate the larcenous king.  His four hundred pound existence entitled itself to job security by delivering a pyramid of pain to others and eventually ending the very universe of suffering he created. A saucy Sinatra in the field. Classy, popular, and well doted by all, but above most, by Fred.  

Slothfully unraveling his crimson scarf from his neck, he gritted, “[i]Who sent you[/i]?”  Nothing stirred. “[i]One Mississippi[/i].” He paused once more without hesitation. “[i]Two Mississippi.[/i]”   No answer. “[i]Three[/i].” Swathing the cherry helix around his right fist, Marc tested the mute closest to him.

[b]Boom.[/b] 

David failed the quiz; his face kissed knuckle.

A rapacious nova tumbled the tax collector downward into a Gehenna of his own blood. Quickly interrupted by the corner of the Acacian desk, his contorted carcass suspended momentarily, only to slide into a lateral decubitus position, with its left orbit oozing several red fractals onto an entangled plastic-laden floor, pooling, rippling, and drowning a human sarcophagus of Schrödinger's cat. 

Taking full advantage of the one-sided squabble, the older of the two younger accountants did not ferry a wasted moment for the Stygian exit, but darted straight at Parlay, while his pet behemoth was occupied. Feet up, he bubbled over the middle of the wooden mesa, into Zorkybski's torso, while simultaneously palming a gilded letter opener. Taken aback by the agility and strength of his opponent, Alfred's chest consumed the full force of two viscous heels, sending him retroflexed, shoulder first, into the monitors overseeing the roulette tables in lots N, P and Q. 

He weeped and gnashed his teeth, “[i]Who the...[/i]” 

Directing, now, his attention to the Memnon shadow looming over his fallen comrade, Bruce hazardly speared the colossus, below the xyphoid, while ducking underneath another right hook, perforating his pylorus. Then, with a twist of the wrist, he drove the duodenum further away from its ligament of treitz, into the left hemidiaphragm, desiring to puncture through the pericardial fat guarding the vascular bosom of the beast. Before further damage progressed, Marc grabbed the aggressor's stained hand and handle, while headbutting his antagonist, crippling Bruce's grip from the make-shift dagger. Releasing tension, but placing torsion on the shank, Bruce caused more and more Vesuvian bile to erupt around the blade, while toggling the forward momentum of the giant's gait, leading him astray, to trip and fall over David's body, all the way through the fireplace's grate into the lift out ash tray near the chimney, descending further upon his already embedded Nietzschean sword. 

Turning about face, to the altar of the lone Syndicate gangster, the traitor, with terror, paralyzed, responded, “[i]Wait! Cyrus sent me.[/i]” Not heeding the hindrance, a hammer cocked plus a loud reagant, resulted in a pierced Brutus, limping, then a graveyard spiral to his sovereign demise, upon the punic bodyguard.

“[i]The original odds were that it was solely David, all this time. Not Bruce. You win some. You lose some. Shit. And, who the fuck is Cyrus?[/i]” An overhead intercom squeaked over Alf's trigger finger, “[i]All available personnel. 3 spills upstairs. I repeat. Clean-up on Aisle Z.[/i]”