No matter how many hours you spend around the shark tanks, you never really expect a tuxedoed thug to drop out of a ventilation shaft, like a krav maga demonstration in a bow-tie.
His jaw ached, a pain only slightly more distracting than his embarrassment at having been used as a human shield.
He stood at attention, feeling no small amount of Schadenfreude as his tormentor was lowered steadily toward the magma flow. Taunts. Witty retorts. The usual.
And then the bastard was free, swinging, kicking someone – Johnson? – into the pit. Now, screams.
Should have checked the watch for lasers.