The smell, texture, taste of an army slamming into your -- well, Johnny Damocles's -- face! The sound, well, the sound was swallowed up by the other sound, the chandelier cracking and shattering under the peer pressure of gunfire up against it, glass dust snowing down, the opera house in outright chaos, chaos I'm telling you -- just another night on the town for Damocles and his sweet-sweet partner, Miss Teiresias Jones. The crumple of nose, the blood, Damocles clutching at his face while the blood gushes, simply gushes. "Do you realize," he shrieks, losing his cool for all of a second before the clean sound editing kicks in -- that is, the drugs -- and his voice is all clean lines. Broken-faced, he comes after the big gorilla of a henchman with the fists that match the wound, grabs him by the scruff, and kicks him clean between the legs. "Do you realize," he repeats, while the big dumb monster stumbled backwards, hands down there but not sexy-like, cursing like no proper lady should. "Do you realize how difficult it is to get laid if you have to wear a mask? Because I'm going to have to wear a mask for at least six hours, darling, before I can see someone about this."
"The trouble with assassins these days," says Miss Jones as she cantaloupes a second flunky square in the forehead with her titanium umbrella handle. She is, of course, going up, and quite prim in her Vera Wang industrial velvet pantsuit, frills at the shoulders and a deep, deep V at the neck to show her vamp-able bosom. "Let's dispatch quickly, Damocles. Madame Butterfly has rather lost her wings, I think, for the night." The stage was a wreck, blasted and exploded in wide slices of soot. People screamed and clutched each other, scrabbling for the door.
"I demand cocktails!" Damocles made sure his opponent was completely out with a sharp jab to the throat with the butt of his palm.
"Don't we all."