Countdown

4

The platinum white knuckles of Mark's right fist met Officer Larry Lickies' chin so fast and with so much force that he didn't have time to react, to slip his gun from its holster, to blow his whistle, to scream into his radio, to recognize the last second he'd ever be conscious. And once his head hit the concrete floor of the empty laundry room, his skull shattering in veins of a fracture, his brain dreaming about his wife at home alone with the two boys and a bottle of Jack Daniels, he was no more aware of the gun Mark forced into his anus and fired four times than he was of the two shanks jettisoned through his eyes until they reached the bloody hair on the back of his head, imparting a lightning strike of eternal bliss and nothingness to his chilling body.

3, 2

Donte and Delonte couldn't figure out what hurt more: the jagged flesh of their wrists which were tied together above their heads with the biting wire from a package of pork loins; the meat hooks in their backs which held them erect but had refused to let them die; or the holes in their groins where their penises had been before Mark sliced them off, taped them together end to end, and placed the largest ebony, two-headed dildo - a veritable black mamba - he'd ever seen into the freezer for good keeping, the blood issuing from their pelvises in geysers of frothy crimson, a slow, drawn-out procession toward certain death for two of the stupidest motherfuckers Mark had ever met in his life.

1

Her holster was empty, but she was not - handcuffed over the pipe she'd used so many times to restrain Mark, he now slipped both hands comfortably into her pleasure holes, one over top the other, and nibbled away at her uterus and rectum with his razored fingernails until his hands met and pulled back with a rending grunt, one black-blood hole replacing the two and forcing little girl whimpers through the long brown hair that wrapped around her head twice, muzzling her swollen mouth. As he untangled her hair from her tear-soaked face, he kicked the gun from under his heel toward her dangling hands, which gnawed fruitlessly at the air inches above the Beretta as he strangled her with her own locks, her breaths dissipating with each squeeze until her determined hands and large-breasted body fell limp into the dark hole of Death, which Mark was sure he'd never know.