Soldier Of Fortune

Infra-red shades settled firmly on the bridge of his nose, he inched down the corridor. Six dobermans lunged, but his sawn-off shotgun sliced them in two. They would have to do better than that if they hoped to slow him down. He was the bravest, meanest and baddest sonofa-mercenary who ever put himself up for hire.

As he reloaded, his trained ear caught pounding footsteps approaching from the left. He was ready. Before the armed guards had time to break stride and aim, they were chopped down. Butchered blood spattered his steel-toed boots, but he focused on the grenade-launcher, dropped moments before one of the antagonists had met his maker. Tossing the shotgun aside, he seized the launcher and canvas satchel of ammunition.

With the weapon resting on his hip, he strode down the darkened hall. He'd like to see Rambo pull this one off...the wuss! His eyes narrowed as the underground labyrinth opened out to an antechamber. The exit was by one of four doors...he pondered his decision.

Then, came the words that drained the courage from his heart and sapped his tenacity. "No," he screamed silently, as he turned and sprinted, well-toned muscles rippling, toward the source of the light.

It was too late. By the time the Duke Nukem clone had hurled himself at the screen, little Tommy's dad had shut down the computer and carried his son, kicking and screaming, off to bed.

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