Eight
Laughing with a throated passion
Mandrake dropped another cartridge
Into his rifle
And looked at Mero
‘Call that a army,
I’ve had more hot dinners
Than whatever the heck
You can throw at me’
Ripping the corpses
That crawled at him into broken pieces
With his guns
Until he ran out of bullets
Laughing at death in the face
With a twisted precision
And he moved onto his sword
Instead of re-loading
And then his dagger
Spinning around in a circular pattern
Like a ballroom dancer
Gone mad
Leaving nothing
But chaos in his wake
And a few frightened witness
Trying to frantically get out alive.
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