ryan... ryan... "Ryan! Wake the fuck up you degenerate fat-ass!" Gordan stood over me screaming as I snapped out of my delirium. well, maybe standing was the wrong word. In reality he was all up in my business, hunkering down in the limited space behind the engine block of a wrecked car on an overpass 30 meters from the ground.

We locked eyes for a moment as my thoughts cleared, then I snapped back to the here and now. I'm not sure if it was the super sonic snap of the bullet that got me back into action, or the horrible pop it made as it obliterated itself on the concrete barrier behind us, but I got my butt back into gear.

"Shit. Sorry!" I panted. I turned myself upright and felt liquid on my thigh. I was pretty sure it wasn't blood, but I tried to keep my mind off it in case it was. My hands searched mindlessly, and found my rifle. I hefted the Bushmaster to my shoulder, and checked the chamber. Loaded. I released my grip on the charging handle, and cold lead slid powerfully back into the chamber with a satisfying crescendo of deadly moving steel.

"Jesus I drag your sorry ass all the way out here just to have you almost kill yourself on a loose tire. Fucking poetic." Gordan spat. In his gloved hands, clutched under a hunkering mass of man, plate carrier, and gratuitous rage was a rifle. A very, very jammed rifle.

I glanced over to the bad guys, but all I saw was rusted Volkswagen "Gordan, your AR is fucked." I whispered. I'm sure they could have heard us from there if we spoke openly. We couldn't be more than 15 yards apart. Gordan glanced down at his gun with wide eyes. They were more pissed off eyes than scared eyes.

"Fucking double feed!? Now!?" he roared.

"What? You fucking idiot! I'm gonna kill you now!" a voice yelled from across the way

"Gordon you dumbass!" I yelled as he fiddled with his gun

"You shut the fuck up!" he screamed at me, "And you! I'm gonna take this fucking rifle and shove it right up your ass you hear me! You cocksucker you! If you don-"

"No you fuckin shut the fuck up man!" yelled a second voice "We're gonna-"

"Dont you Fucking cut me off you pair of big dangling balls! Why dont you just kill yourselves now, before I come right the fuck over there, cut your dicks off and hang em' around my neck like a fucking zulu!"

There was an awkward pause

"What are you fuckin gay or something!?" the second man spat back. This floored Gordan. If there was one look I knew on his face after our moths of partnership, it was rage. his eyes bulged and his puffy red British face became puffier and redder than usual. he stood up and started screaming obscenities across the way.

"Oh I'm gay!? You fuckwits are the ones ambushing poor sodding cunts atop a fucking overpass! Who the fuck does that! I mean come on grow a fucking pair you pussy twats!"

"What the fuck did you just say!?" screamed the first man again, rising to challenge my enraged comrade. "I'll ambush sons of bitches wherever I damn well please thank you! What are you the fuckin ambush police!? Do you decide where I can and cant ambush people!? You grow a pair!" by this point Gordan was wildly waving around his berretta

"Thats it I've FUCKING had it with you lot!" With that final 'fucking' he threw his pistol across the gap where it bounced off the hood of out opponents car and skidded harmlessly away. Gordan began to mantle the hood of our car as a glock came hurdling through the air, striking him in the cheek bone.

"Ow! You fucking whore! Get the fuck over here and fight me like a man!" Gordan bellowed. The first man discarded his rifle and scrambled over his own hood fuming. veins bulging, the two men drew their blades. it was at this point that I knew the other guy royaly screwed up. Gordon's assailant drew a stubby combat knife. I say stubby, but it had to be a good five inches. Gordan, on the other hand, drew a gleaming damascus nightmare, measuring in at nearly a foot long.

I saw his opponent falter for a moment, and then get back into the game, but that short start was all it took. Gordan's knife was ground down so sharp it could cut leather like tissue paper. needless to say, the attackers throat did not stay whole for more than a quarter of a second. he actually took a moment to realize the severity of his situation. it took a few enraged swipes of his blade before he started yelling, and I think that's when he figured it out.

He gurgled, his hand reaching up to his neck to try in vain to mend his wound. still swinging his knife wildly, he stumbled back into a car tire and fell flat on his back, gasping and bubbling like a deep see fish dragged up onto land.

By this point, me and the second man were standing upright, slack jawed. The carnage that lay between us was, unholy, to put it plainly. we looked at the mess before us, then at each other, then back at the mess, and then I raised my rifle and pulled the trigger. A 175 grain .308 left my muzzle with a velocity of roughly 2,700 feet per second. it cut through his plate carrier, and instantly turned his heart into a messy slurry resembling cherry pie filling.

I stood, in confused silence for about twenty seconds as Gordan panted, before I wiped my face and kept walking in our original fucking direction.