Iron Fang's Room

Gorski sulked on his bed in his bare, dusty room inside of the Fortress. Stupid Curtain.

He lay on his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, a knife in his hands, feeling supremely disheartened. He fingered the blade slowly, absently. He hadn't been the one to screw it up. He hadn't. The Curtain was completely unreasonable. Arrogant prick. Like he had any right in the world to talk to Gorski that way... Ah, the very idea that that moron though himself so superior made Gorski want to slit his throat. And he'd watch the blood drain out and stain that high-priced office carpet, and he'd make that stuck-up Communist watch it, too. And Gorski would smile, and he'd say, "Is that how your like your red, Comrade?" And he'd laugh and he'd hurl that bloated body out the window and watch it splatter on the street bellow, like a big water balloon full of blood.

Gorski grinned placidly at the thought, and even chuckled aloud.