[@Liliya]


[i]From the second floor of the Mojo South Casino, a trio of confused yells rattled the thin, cracked windows. The exclamations were cut off prematurely. It was ten till nine P.M in Las Vegas. This time of the year the night came early. The only source of illumination in the large room came from an electric lantern. Seeing as the lantern was drenched in blood, the decrepit room seemed as if it were bathed in viscera itself. Upon a vast white tarp covering most of the floor lay a jumble of soggy body parts. Donny had laid down the tarp beforehand, and had led the three rubes right into the center of it. He had worked them up good, gotten them angry. When men get angry, they get stupid. Naturally they slowly tried to flank and surround him as the conversation escalated. Donny in turn paced around to keep them in sight, casting about with vivid hand gestures as he played up the act of a nervous, desperate collector. In the gloom, they hadn't noticed the spiderweb strands of microwire that he had been spreading. 

Near the end of the charade he had purposefully tripped over a ragged lump of old torn carpet that formed a mound beneath the tarp. The men found themselves pulled into a tight huddle, flesh and muscle parting in a dozen places. Donny had given the wire a vicious tug as his weight hit the ground. They had been left with no more than a second to scream. No fuss no muss, no hacksaw needed, no wasted bullets. Things might have gone differently had they simply drawn their weapons and fired upon him, but they hadn't. They were disillusioned about their own mortality, and in their heart of hearts, had wanted to be justified in murder. They had wanted to wait until Donny gave them a reason, until he had tried to escape or outright demand the money. Reason had nothing to do with the situation that they walked into. When an instant defines the line between life and death, being able to land the first (and last) blow is an art that many underestimate. In the end, if your enemies are all dead, who then is the victor? The dead cannot argue against this philosophy.

Donny walked two and fro across the room, picking up the corners of the tarp and dragging them into the center so he could wrap the sucker up like a quarter-ton trash bag. As he was knotting the canvas, he paused and watched the double doors out of the corner of his innocuous left eye. The smoke from his cigarette was hued red from the deathlight, slowly twisting and coiling in front of his soft features as would a phantasmal snake. He wasn't alone.[/i]