Knife Fight

Everyone loves a great knife fight. Guns are great, sure, but knives? Knives are personal, man. You can shoot a man and forget about it in an hour (you’re not technically killing them, after all), but knives? Knives, you are. Especially if you gouge your fingers into the wound afterwards.

You just don’t forget a great knife fight, do you? You remember the taste, the smell, and the disgusting, vile sights. Things like that stay with you for years. Even ones you weren’t involved in, ones you’ve just heard about. Like that one in that film (What was it?), and then that other one. Yeah.

Whilst most of my kills have been from guns, grenades, and one particularly fun day with a combine harvester, I’ve had a few knife fights. Most I can’t remember, but there was one particularly intense one a few days ago. I can’t remember when or where exactly, but I remember what happened and what was said.

We stood either side of the room, facing each other. Guns pointed at heads, fingers on triggers, only the shock that it could be the end freezing us both.

For some reason he knew some English. He was after a game. It’s customary: in this situation the revolver comes out, all but one bullet is dropped to the floor, and the deadliest game of all (other than nude piranha dipping) begins.

"So then, this is-"

I pulled the trigger. *Click*

"Why, you!" He went for his own. *Click*

We dropped our guns and unsheathed our secondary weapons.

"You killed my family!" he shouted.

"Yeah, change the record, mate."

"AAAARGH!"

He lunged for me and - quick as a flash - thrust his weapon towards my nude, manly chest. The hairs on my breast glistened beautifully as the red sunset crept through the Venetian blinds and highlighted the liquid beads, sexily.

Surprised, I grabbed his weapon but - surprised by his power - struggled to cope.

As we struggled, his torso met mine, and the grunts became louder as the pain increased. We rolled in the dust, our bodies rubbing against each other. However, I couldn’t raise my weapon. His repeated thrusts were hard to cope with I can tell you – I just wasn’t used to taking such a beating. I was starting to bleed. I looked deep inside my soul and asked myself, "What am I doing with my life? Is this… right?" I searched for my inner strength.

Suddenly, I summoned the power to respond, and pushed forward, rolling to the side.

Meanwhile, the Iraqi’s momentum took him forward, his knife now stuck into the floorboard. I saw my opportunity, and in one smooth motion my knife was in his back.

"Argh! Ooh, that kills! You little tinker!"

I stabbed him again.

And again.

20 minutes later, he was dead. (I really should have more attention in Knife Class, as to which areas are “critical”.)