james_

So he's standing there, surrrounded by these pigs, these hypocrites. He's standing there, his arm pointed at the ground, angled out from the side of his leg, and he's staring quite calmly at his empty palm as if he's waiting for a dove to fly from his sleeve. Only there's barely room in his sleeves for his arms. You can tell by the way his dinner suit is straining slightly at the shoulder seams, and the way the elbows are all shiny. He goes to a lot of dinner parties, I guess, but they don't usually end like this.
The circle of bastards are closing in on him now. There's five of them, not dressed in a particular fashion, just looking like random people you'd pass in the street. That's how they work, see? You don't even notice them crystalising around you from out of the crowd until it's too damn late. This time they've had to work hard though. Half a mile they've walked with him, in tight, closing formation. And now they've got him, outside the museum, the white marble brazenly inviting them to stain it.
The knife falls into his palm when they're a step away, and he whirls round 360 degrees. His focus fools them until the last second, right until the spray of red is torn across the stone pillar.

(I'm quite proud of that)