There wasn't much to see: just Osterflood's big buttocks moving a few inches up and down as he plowed away at Gina's rich earth and her fingers splayed out on his back and occasionally changing position, as if she were playing chords. Gina was groaning, when Osterflood abruptly rose to his knees, flipped her over onto her stomach like a farmer working with a sack of wheat and fumbled with his weapon to reengage the enemy in her other cave. When he thrust himself into her and fell forward upon her Gina let loose a terrible scream. It corresponded so perfectly with gun shots from the screen that I looked back quickly to see a beautiful, frightened peasant girl with a ripped blouse clutching the arm of the number one earnest American and the peasant spies blasting away from behind a chicken coop.
Gina was fighting with her right arm to raise herself and twist Osterflood off and out -of her, but he bore down, pulling, her hair with one hand and controlling her right arm with the other. His professional-wrestler role seemed to be paying off.
`Bitchbitchbitch,' he gasped, and the American was dragging the beautiful peasant girl through a cornfield and bullets were shattering the kernels every which way and Osterflood was banging Gina's head against the rug and the American tossed a grenade and whomp! the chink peasants were splattered like fertilizer over the cornfield and 'Diediedie-bitchbitch,' Osterflood hissed and with a supreme thrust deep into her anus they both screamed.
An unearthly silence filled the room. The beautiful peasant girl was looking with most frightened eyes from the pieces of peasant to the earnest American. 'My God,' she said.
`Steady,' the deep voice answered. `We've won this round, but there's always more of them.'
Osterflood rolled off his conquered foe with a grunt, his weapon still cocked, but presumably discharged.
Gina's hilly form lay quietly for a few moments and then she got to her knees and stood up. Although she was still facing away toward the TV set, I could see blood running in a tiny stream down the right corner of her mouth and something was smeared down the inside of one thigh. Slowly she moved off to the left and disappeared into what seemed to be a bathroom.
I was perspiring a good deal and a lady was smiling ecstatically as she held up her laundry and I found myself sailing over to the liquor cabinet and fixing three more drinks, adding mostly melted ice.
Osterflood was lying on his back when I sailed back again, but he sat up to take the drink I offered him. He stared
wild-eyed at me.
'I'm going to be killed,' he said.
I'd forgotten all about that.
He clutched at my pants leg, spilling part of his drink on the rug.
'I'm going to die. I know it. You've got to do something.'
'It's all right,' I said.
'No, no, it's not, it's not. I feel it strongly. I deserve to die.'
`Come into the kitchen,' I said.
He stared wild-eyed at me.
'I want to show you something,' I added.
`Oh,' he said, and with a great effort he turned himself onto his hands and knees and staggered to his -feet.
I flowed off behind his whale-like form toward the kitchen and as he passed through the door in front of me I drew
my gun from my pocket, raised it in a long endless arc up over my head, and then down with all my force onto the top
of Osterflood's huge head.
'Wha'sat?'
Osterflood said, stopping and turning, and slowly raising a hand to his head.
I gazed openmouthed at his erect, swaying, hulking body.
'It's .. . it's my gun,' I said.
He looked down at the black little pistol hanging limply from my fist.
'What'd you hit me for?' he said after a pause.
'Show you my gun,' I said, still gaping at his blank, bleary, bewildered eyes.
'You hit me,' he said again.
We stared at each other, our minds working with the speed and efficiency of lobotomized sloths.
'Just a tap. Show you my gun,' I said.
We stared at each other.
'Some tap,' he said.
We stared at each other.
'Protect you with. Don't tell Gina.'
When he stopped rubbing the back of his head, his hand and arm dropped like an anchor into the sea.
'Thanks,' he said dully, and moved past me back into the living room.
Two snake-eyed peasants were conspiring together on the screen, and I wandered over to the liquor cabinet and stared
at the big photograph of Al Capone. Was it Al Capone? It was Al Capone. Robot-fashion I plucked three more fresh glasses from the neat stack there, poured in the dregs of ice from the bowl, and splashed some Scotch and water into each. I stirred them all idly with my finger, licked my finger and as a kind of dreamy afterthought, drew, from my jacket pocket the envelope of strychnine and poured about half of it (fifty mg) into one of the drinks. I stirred it with my finger again and was about to lick my finger but thought better of it. I poured the other half of the poison into an empty glass, filled it from the pitcher of water and stirred it with my finger again.
'I'm going to die, whip me!' Osterflood was saying on his back from the floor. 'Beat me, kill me.'
Gina had returned from wherever she had been and was standing over Osterflood, sweat glistening lightly on her chest
and forehead. Her child's face peered down at him as at an interesting toad. Osterflood was groaning and writhing
mildly on the rug. Then he stopped and said quietly.
'Whip me.'
Gina leaned down to her left and picked up her leather skirt and stepped into it, buttoning it loosely at her hips. She
drew out the leather belt.
'Would you two like a drink first?' I asked, holding the three Scotch drinks on a tray before me.